We're All Mad Here

by Angel Lawson

  She pulls out a small piece of paper. “Nothing big. Just a couple of pinches of each.”

  “How am I supposed to get that?” I glance over the list. Most items are normal. Sage, rosemary, salt, but it’s not like I’m carrying Tupperware containers with me.

  “Use your imagination,” she says dryly. “Look, you said you wanted to help me with my aunt thing. This is how you do it.”

  There’s a sense of panic in her eyes and obligation sets in. “Okay, I’ll figure it out.”

  “I need it by tomorrow night.”

  “Why so fast?”

  She looks to the ceiling. “Don’t blame me, blame the moon.”

  I’m about to tell her she’s speaking jibberish, but she grabs a towel off the counter and shoves it in her basket. Her eyes flick over my shoulder and I go back to work, pressing the piece of paper into my pocket. Mrs. Carver appears seconds later.

  “You’re a little early,” she says to Vera. “The rest of the towels won’t be ready for another thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll come back.”

  Later, sitting in the hallway waiting for group, I’m considering asking Bethany the best way to steal something from the pantry. I’ve got my sketchbook open in my lap but not drawing, trying to figure out if whatever Vera is asking me to do is worth it. This is the kind of thing that could wreck my release in a couple weeks.

  Is it worth it?

  I don’t even know what she wants it for. A couple of kids head my way, including Charlotte. It’s about time for our separate girls and boys groups. Vera emerges from behind Charlotte and from my spot on the ground I see her hand off a slip of paper into her hand.

  Huh.

  Charlotte doesn’t flinch but tucks the paper in the waistband of her pants. They both pass me by, disappearing into their meeting room. Vera ignores me completely and Charlotte giving me a quick wink.

  My question pops back in my mind.

  Is it worth it?

  If Vera is asking Charlotte for help, then yeah, it must be worth it.

  *

  “I’ve got most of what you need,” I tell Vera the next day as we jog around the field.

  “Already?” she asks, a bright smile gracing her face.

  “Yeah, I had to act like a total clumsy dumbass, and there may be a little dirt in it from the dust pan but I got everything on the list except the lemon peel. But I think maybe I can get some of that tonight.”

  “Wow, Connor. I totally thought you’d fail at this. Bravo.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Not really. You try to play up the bad boy but it’s pretty clear you’re more emo-damaged. Stealing isn’t really your thing.”

  “Thanks?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll try to get it to you tonight during free time, okay?”

  “That should work. I just need it by midnight.”

  We trot around the field. It’s September but it hasn’t cooled off much. At least the bugs aren’t so bad. “So any desire to tell me what this is all about?”

  “I’m making a spell. Those are some of the ingredients.”

  “A spell.”

  “Yeah, I need to get in touch with my Aunt.”

  “Can you write her or call?”

  “My mom put her on the no-contact list, you know, since she’s the devil.”

  “Right.” I wait a beat. “So you can do a spell to contact her another way?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I have to sort of fudge the ingredients a little. Nothing here is exactly standard.”

  “Is Charlotte helping you?” Her eyes cut to me. “I saw you pass her something in the hall.”

  She sighs. “As much as I hate it, I needed her to get me some Vitamin E from the clinic.”

  “That was a risky move.”

  “I know. But I don’t have a choice. I have to talk to my Aunt.”

  I’m still not sure what ‘talking’ means in this situation. I’m not sure I want to know. My own experience with communicating with people not exactly ‘here’ is unnerving enough. Messing with this stuff—the supernatural or whatever—doesn’t feel right.

  A shadow passes overhead and I glance up at a large bird—a hawk I think, flying over the field. Something falls as it passes and I jump back, thinking we’re about to get crapped on. Instead a feather floats slowly to the ground. Vera lunges for it, snatching it out of the air. A pleased smile crosses her lips.

  “Oh.” She tucks the feather into her hair. “I need one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Charcoal. Like from your drawing pencils. Do you have any?”

  I nod.

  Her grin grows, tinged with what seems like relief. “Bring it with the rest tonight. We’re at a quarter moon. The timing is perfect.”

  *

  I manage to slip Vera her supplies and from what I can gather, so does Charlotte. I don’t like her involvement. There’s no way something won’t go wrong, but Vera is determined. Desperate even.

  I’m restless that night, the quiet of my room a little much. I miss Max and the incessant noises he made. The constant movement. The rip and tears of paper. No wonder I’ve been hanging out with Vera so much. I’m lonely as hell.

  I’m ready to go home.

  When I first hear the sound I think it’s the click of a cart rolling down the hall. For a brief second I fear it’s another crow and sit up, panicked in my bed. But it’s not the tap of a beak that I hear. Something different. Softer. I get up to look out my tiny window and see a shadow cross the wall.

  It’s not a bird. It’s something bigger. Lankier.

  I drop to my knees, my heart pounding in my chest, knowing full well the last time I had a dream—or a vision—or whatever it was, Jackson was on the brink of death. Does Vera need me? Is this about her spell? Against the crack at the bottom of the door I whisper her name.

  “Vera?”

  A rush of smoke pushes under the door, white and cool. Instinctively, I grab at it with my fingers, but it’s not solid and I grasp at nothing but air.

  “Vera? Is that you? Are you okay?”

  The smoke rolls together, twisting until it takes form. A pure white cat emerges and strides in my direction. I feel its soft fur rub against my ankles.

  Real. This is real.

  I panic.

  Jumping across the room I lunge for the door, banging my fists against the metal.

  “Help! I need help!” I cry, looking over my shoulder for the cat. It waits patiently; tail swishing in the middle of the room.

  The shadow of a person crosses my window but I keep pounding until the lock unbolts and the door opens. Paul stands in front of me, eyes wide and worried. “Connor, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  “It’s Vera,” I say, pushing out the room. He holds me back with two hands. “I’m worried she—“

  “She what?”

  “Just check on her okay?”

  “Did she say something? Make a threat?” he asks. Before I can answer an alarm sounds—shrieking through the hallways. The doors to my left and right auto-unlatch and my hall mates stumble sleepily from their rooms.

  “Single file!” Paul shouts. “Fire alarm. Everyone out the emergency door.”

  I push past him toward the girls’ hall while Paul’s Walkie-Talkie crackles to life. Carlos ambles by, heading down the hall. In the chaos I glance back and spot the cat, so white it’s nearly translucent, dart out my door.

  “Do you—," I clamp my mouth shut. No. I already know. No one can see that cat but me.

  At the cross point of the girls and boys dorms Paul stops me at the nurse’s station, where a flurry of activity fills the halls. Nurse Eleanor waves us away from the residence halls, but I see movement down the hall and Vera’s door is open. Three staff members go inside.

  I move down the hall against traffic, terrified of what I’ll find, just as the emergency door swings open and everyone files outside. It’s there just for that—emergencies—and leads o
ut the back to the parking lot. The instant the door opens, a flash of white disappears outside.

  “Connor?” Charlotte calls as she’s shuffled past. Her hair is wild from sleep. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Have you seen her?”

  Charlotte shakes her head and is pushed toward the exit by Eleanor.

  “Jacobs! Get outside!”

  I’m swept along with the crowd, staff leading everyone to safety. I search everyone for Vera’s familiar face, but she’s nowhere to be found.

  A fire truck rushes up with the wail of its siren. The fighters rush, fully dressed, into the building. We’re directed to go out to the field and everyone huddles into small groups, sleepily talking it over. I wait as close to the entrance as they’ll let me, and Charlotte comes to stand next to me, hands shoved in her hoodie’s pockets.

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “No idea.”

  “Do you know what she needed that stuff for? I gave her matches. When I passed her room it smelled like fire.”

  “I saw, um…” Yeah, I can’t actually say it. That I saw a cat that I think was maybe Vera, slip into the night. Nope. Not saying it. I’m relieved when two staff members, carrying clipboards, start calling our names, checking roll.

  Only one person doesn’t answer.

  Charlotte gives me a look and I shrug. A sick feeling rolls in my stomach. Before I can ask, Dr. Cross steps outside and waves me over.

  “Good luck,” Charlotte whispers.

  I’m going to need more than luck.

  Chapter 12

  I follow Dr. Cross down the hall and stop abruptly in front of the Vera’s room. The door is open and Paul, along with two other staff members, stands over a circle drawn in charcoal, the scent of sulfur strong in the air. A pile of smoldering ash bubbles against the floor like tar.

  “Where’s Vera?” I ask. “She wasn’t outside.”

  “Paul noted you were concerned about Vera before the fire alarm went off,” Dr. Cross says. “Did you know she was planning something?

  I swallow. “Not really—not this. She just said something…”

  The words get stuck in my throat. Everything from here on will be a lie. A lie that, if I get caught, will keep me here longer. The truth? That will cause even more trouble. I’ll never get home.

  “She asked me for some stuff from the kitchen.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Salt. Lemon peel.” I scratch my neck but then stop because I think it must look like I’m nervous. I’m way beyond nervous. “I thought she was doing some kind of girly-face scrub stuff or something.”

  I have no idea what I’m even talking about.

  Paul bends over the mess on the floor and I notice markings of some kind in the charcoal. Words or symbols or something. He holds something thin and charred between two fingers and asks, “What about the matches?”

  “I don’t…uh…”

  “I gave them to her.”

  Paul and I both look at the doorway where Charlotte is standing, red-eyed, with Marcy. “I gave her the matches. And the oil she used to start the fire.”

  Dr. Cross frowns. “How did you get access to these things?”

  She shifts on her feet, but juts her chin defiantly. “The oil came from the clinic. I stole the matches.”

  Paul has stopped moving entirely, eyes focused on the floor. I’m sure the same can be said for at least three more staff members in the building. Charlotte has her hands in everything, but for some reason she’s taking a hit for me. I tilt my head and watch her closely.

  “I didn’t know why she wanted the stuff but I was just trying to make friends, you know? I thought if I did something nice for her she’d hang out with me.”

  Marcy steps forward and places a comforting hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. Jesus. This girl takes the effing cake.

  Dr. Cross sighs and rubs his forehead. “It’s been a long night. Now that the building is secure I think everyone needs to go back to their rooms and we’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

  “Yes sir,” Charlotte says and I mumble the same, trying to assess how much trouble we’re in. The doctor doesn’t give an inch so I head to my room, too exhausted to worry any further.

  *

  The next day is a series of interrogations. They ask the questions and we answer them. I still haven’t figured out exactly what went on but from what I can gather, Vera managed to escape the facility last night.

  Charlotte and I are held in opposite rooms, interviewed by Dr. Cross and Marcy. Later, the police. I tell the same story over and over again, hoping Charlotte does the same. If she doesn’t I’m screwed. If she does…well, I’m still not sure.

  Dr. Cross sits across from me with a police officer lurking in the corner of the room. “Why exactly did you call out for help last night?”

  “I just had a bad feeling—honestly, I may have just had a bad dream that got jumbled up with some comments Vera made yesterday.”

  It’s nonsense. Not the kind of thing a sane person says. Not the words someone who is ready to integrate back into regular society would use, but it’s the only thing I can think of with both of them staring at me like I hold the key to the truth.

  “Are you aware of Vera’s history with the occult?”

  “The occult?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything else, but the mess she’d left on her floor reeked of witchcraft.

  “Do you know anyone in the building that would help her escape?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “What about Charlotte?”

  I laugh. I can’t help myself. “Those two were always fighting. The fact Charlotte helped her at all is a surprise.”

  Dr. Cross nods. The officer looks bored.

  “Thank you, Connor,” he says. “Please let me know if anything comes to mind, okay?”

  “Sure.” I stand, more than ready to get out of this room—away from the scrutiny. I stop and rest my hands on the back of the chair. “Am I in trouble for giving her the stuff from the kitchen?”

  Dr. Cross removes his glasses and rubs his red, tired eyes. “Although it was unwise for you to take items from the pantry and give it to another resident, I can’t see that you would have nefarious motives for passing along a little salt.”

  “No sir, I had no idea what she was using it for.”

  “You’ve had an exemplary record while you’ve been at Brookhaven. You have two weeks left. Please make them pass smoothly.”

  I nod. “I will. Thank you.”

  “Head to group.”

  Charlotte steps into the hallway as I shut the door. When we’re far enough away she says, “Where do you think she went? How did she get away?”

  Still unwilling to confess or maybe just unwilling to admit what I know, I reply, “Maybe the magic worked.”

  *

  The following days are weird. I sleep on the edge, waiting for shifting animals to appear under my door.

  They never arrive.

  I jog alone, eyes peeled for hawks—for a sign, but there’s nothing other than my labored breathing and a sense of sadness. I’m down two friends. There’s nothing left for me to do but focus on getting out of here.

  Charlotte spends the week on punishment, only coming out for meals and group. She’s lost her free and activity time. Her medication is delivered to her room. She sits at a table alone during meals. The other residents whisper about her—about Vera for a day or two—but the novelty wears thin due to limited details.

  To my surprise, the devious glint I’ve become accustomed to seeing in her eyes is gone. I’m shocked she took the fall for Vera. No seriously, shocked. As far as I can tell, she keeps her mouth shut and her story straight. She accepts her punishment.

  I’m impressed.

  *

  It’s my final week. I should be excited but mostly I’m just filled with dread. Charlotte is back with the rest of the residents helping me in the laundry room, folding towels and sheets. Bethany and Carlos are
close by, loading the industrial-sized washers.

  The machines make enough noise to block most conversation, so I’m skeptical when she moves close to me. “So remember how, before everything with Vera went down, you said you’d think about us being friends?”

  A quick peek over the towel I’m holding reveals her strangely eager face. “Yeah.”

  “Have you thought about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh.”

  I sigh. “What’s this all about Charlotte?”

  “Honestly?” she asks, with a surprisingly clear voice. “I’m carrying a pretty big boulder on my shoulder and I need to tell someone. I’m not sure what will happen with me while I’m in here or when I finally get out. I’d like someone to know the real me.”

  “You can’t tell Marcy? She loves this kind of shit.”

  “No. It’s real stuff. Like whatever it is that brought you here. Or whatever the hell happened to Vera.”

  I think about it, matching up the edges of the towel. I know what she means. We’ve all got a boulder—a weight pressing down on us. Talking to Vera helped. Charlotte had proved herself, at least a little. Listening to her wouldn’t kill me, and maybe it would be good for her.

  I toss the towel into the pile and say, “Alright.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, go for it.”

  “Now?”

  “I’m leaving next week. It may be now or never.”

  “Okay.” She exhales and starts talking. “All that stuff I said in group was true. I am very popular at home. I could have any friend I wanted—any boy I wanted, but it’s not because I’m nice or a good person. It’s because I can control people. I can make them do what I want. They’ve put me on this pedestal, for good or bad.”

  “What do you mean good or bad?”

  “As you can probably guess, my reputation isn’t great. Guys want me because they think they can screw me. Girls are terrified to be left out of my clique. If you’re out then you’re a target. No one wants to be a target.”

  I think about Allison Morgan and her crew of cheerleaders. It isn’t much different with them, but why did Charlotte seem so much more dangerous? “So big deal, you’re a mean girl that uses her powers for evil and not good. That’s not much of a secret or even that unusual.”