by M. C. Atwood
Paul smiles the happiest smile and tears come to his eyes again. I want to hug him all over and pet him and kiss the living crap out of him. We look into each other’s eyes, and he leans in just slightly, moving his eyes toward my lips. I lean in, too, my whole body screaming and mind going crazy it’shappeningit’s happeningit’shappening, and then, Dylan says, “Fuck yeah! Dude slid on his KNEES to get a sword.”
Paul snaps back, but his face glows. “Okay, that was pretty awesome, I’ll admit.”
And then Gretchen looks at me, “And, you? A pushover? Remember when you ran in after him?”
Ashley snorts. “Seriously. There was, like, no stopping you.”
I sit up straighter. “Yeah. I guess I can be pretty hardcore.” A smile that starts from the inside grows out. I can’t stop it.
Dylan says, “Oh hells yeah!” And then does a flip in the middle of the café. Which is a super bad idea because he’s bleeding from about a million different injuries. He misses the flip and splats on the ground. We rush to him like one flock of birds and lift him up. He groans but is laughing. And we’re all laughing, too. But still, no one really looks at each other. We are shy toward each other, raw. Emotional sunburn not quite healed.
Paul leans into me a little and I lean in back. A tendril of hope has started in my chest, growing out. A tendril of something new. But then I’m aware of little arms wrapped around my leg and I almost kick back. I almost send the little wizard flying. He is hugging my knee.
He steps away and sniffs, wiping away a tear. “Wow, you guys. I didn’t know it was so hard out there. That’s some intense stuff.” And then he pats the back of my knee.
DYLAN
Wizard dude is loooonneeely.
But then again, so is our sad little group. I remember our class on the outside and look out the window fast. But they’ve clearly rabbited now and it’s just a view of a ramp and the gardens and the forest and shit. And the dark sky is back, twisting in on itself.
Demon dude must have given us just a glimpse of what we’re missing.
What a dick.
“Hey,” I say. “I wonder if we can break these windows?” Before anyone can answer, I throw a chair at the glass.
It bounces off and parts of it almost hit Violet, who—badass warrior-style—ducks. The chair breaks and wood splinters.
“Aw shit, sorry, yo,” I say, cringing. Oops.
“I don’t think the windows are breakable,” says the wizard. Ashley looks at him with this look like, “Shut the fuck up,” and the wizard sort of flinches. Girl can wither anybody.
“Well, I just don’t think they are,” he says under his breath, but loud enough for us to hear.
Violet, her hand butterflying around Paul’s hand says, “I know we’re not done here, but we should really think about going. Next are the doll carousels.”
I let out a breath of air. More dolls.
Gretchen says, “We should grab weapons.” We look around, and the chair I just broke has four great sticks to use.
“I’ve got my staff!” says the wizard, smiling at us all.
“Poor dude,” I say. I pat the top of the wizard’s pointy hat as I pass by to grab a stick. Something cold knocks against my leg in my pocket—the lighter. “Hey, we can make torches!” I realize I yell this and try to calm down. I know Gretch will try to rein me in in a mo. Or at least she would have before. I don’t know anything anymore, truth be told.
Paul turns to me, his face lit up. “Is there anything in the kitchen? Like any beer or anything?” He looks to the wizard. “You were there. Anything in there?”
“Oh, I don’t drink,” says the wizard. He puts his hand up to his mouth like he’s telling a secret, “Not a good idea to drink and wield a staff, if you know what I mean.”
My lip twitches. There are too many good jokes. Just. Too many.
Violet answers him, “Yeah,” like she really understands. But then says, “Did you see anything else, though? Like any type of alcohol—even rubbing alcohol?”
Because evidently Violet and Paul are of one brain now and seem to know what each other is talking about.
The wizard says, “Hmmm . . . No, I don’t believe I saw anything like that in there. All I saw were high, shiny surfaces and a box with a red cross on it.” He puts his hand on the side of his mouth again. “Must be a church, but not very welcoming, if you’d like my opinion. Dylan, did I hear you say something about a church?”
I mutter, “Too soon, dude.”
At the same time Ashley yells, “First aid!” She hobbles into the kitchen and then comes out with a box and another towel. Real quick she wraps up her foot and Gretch eyes her the whole time. But not in a mad way. An appraising way. Like, almost the way she used to look at me. A sadness trickles through my veins, drippity drip. I shut off the sad faucet and swallow it down. Most important here? Gretch being happy. And, you know. Living through this House. Ashley opens up the box and sure enough, there is a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
“What are you thinking?” Gretch asks. Which is exactly what I’m thinking.
Paul says, “Something for bombs. Like putting alcohol and some rags in a jar. Molotov cocktails.”
I look at him. “Dude. You know how to make a Molotov cocktail? Like from the mean streets of UC Berkeley?”
He laughs a big laugh and the rest of us snort. He says, “No. I just know alcohol burns. From all the damn bonfires the people in our high school throw.”
Ashley raises her eyebrows. “So many. So pointless.” They share a look.
Gretch, wasting no time, says, “Sweet. I’ll find jars.” She runs to the kitchen and finds baby food jars and towels. And three or four small knives.
She picks up a knife and punctures the top of a baby food jar, sticking part of the rag in the hole. Then she takes some alcohol and pours a little in each jar. The rest of us pick up knives and do the same thing. We’re like some kind of commando force, starting a revolution. Actually, we are that. Exactly that.
When we’re done, we have a bunch of potential bombs, some small knives, and chair sticks.
Violet attempts to adjust a towel around her head and ear. Paul reaches in to fix it, almost offhand. They smile at each other. There’s light between them now. There’s light in the air, light between all of us. It all feels so raw still, but . . . maybe . . .
Gretchen wraps the baby food jars in a towel and ties it to her belt. When she moves the jars tinkle-tinkle against each other—angels getting their wings. Except hopefully not the asstroll angels we’ve had to fight. She says, “I wish I had my monster bag still. But,” she sticks her hip out and actually smiles, “I can make anything look good.” Gretch is, like, joking. This is the freest I’ve ever seen her. And we’re pretty much on our way to die.
Ashley looks her up and down. “Super true.” She shrugs and gives me a little smile—I smile back. She’s not wrong. And we have a major thing in common now.
She turns toward the door. “Let’s go kick some ass.”
ASHLEY
The fight with Gretchen sticks in my mouth like glue. There was so much I wanted to say. So much I fucked up. Now she’ll never think of me the way I was hoping she would.
What am I thinking anyway? Girl is straight, girl is straight, girl is straight.
I wonder how straight she is . . . Is she bi-straight?
Violet leads the way out of the café and turns around to look at us. “Okay, we have to go through the cask room, again, but just one tiny part of it. And then I think it’s the doll room.” She brandishes her stick. “Weapons at the ready.” When she gets to the doorway, she takes a deep breath and walks through, fast, onto the pathway through the cask room.
Right away, the voices start in, yelling things at us.
“They aren’t very nice, are they?” I hear from behind me. It’s the little wizard asshole, s
till following us.
Now, another day, I would have punted the fucker over a bridge. But I have decided to try something new. Being nice. Or empathetic or whatever. Paul’s words, Gretchen’s words, even Dylan’s words. Violet. All of that is sitting with me funny, so that my world is just a little tilted. A little new. So I say, “Uh, yeah.”
That’s all I’ve got for now.
“Good luck, humans! See you in hell!” calls the ram from above the door, because rams are dicks.
Saints and statues all around fake-cry and point and laugh at us. “As if they’ll win,” a saint whispers to a taxidermied wolf.
The wolf laughs. “They always think they’ll win. They always think they’re different.”
I try to ignore them, and finally we reach the door to the doll carousel room. I can see something turning in there, white lights bright next to red velvet.
We all look at each other and then take deep breaths. Then we step through.
Hundreds of dolls on towering carousels. Dolls with fancy dresses, old dresses, tattered dresses, new ones. They all ride small carousel animals, their faces fixed, frozen in smiles or just plain blank.
We start up the ramp.
No dolls move.
The wizard says, loud, “Was it this room you were afraid of?”
We all turn back to him and say as one, “SHHHHHH.”
But then Paul whispers, “He’s right. Nothing’s happening in here. Why aren’t the dolls moving?”
We hear scurrying overhead. As we turn the corner of the ramp, I catch a glimpse of another carousel. This one with other types of mannequins and figures. One is an outright devil, with horns and hooves and a tail. But nothing moves. We continue—into another hallway with a dollhouses sign above it.
I relax my shoulders. I didn’t know I was tensing up.
“So we have to get through there at some point,” I say loudly. My voice reverberates through the hall and I turn back around, half expecting the dolls to be right behind me. Nothing. Except the wizard. Who waves at me.
Violet stands up straight—we all seem to have assumed a Scooby Doo posture when we went up the ramp—and says, “Now it’s dollhouses. And circus houses.”
Gretchen says. “Just in glass cases?”
Violet nods.
Paul sighs and lowers the stick.
But Gretchen says, “Stay on guard. We have no idea what is in here ahead of us.”
Violet leads us through the dollhouses. Lights flicker on and off. Dolls in the cases open their eyes.
Gretchen says to me, softly, “These must be like your house, Ash.” But she’s not being mean.
I laugh, even though I don’t let anyone call me Ash. Gretch can call me Ash. “It’s true.” And it is. My house is freaking huge. Being the daughter of an asshole dad has its privileges. Lots and lots of them. Which could all go away if I tell him . . . As if reading my mind, Gretchen stays back until we’re walking side by side and asks, without looking at me, “Are you ever going to tell your parents? What do you think they’d do?”
I sigh and jump a little when a doll smacks itself up against the glass.
“I don’t know. Honestly. It’s not just my parents I’m afraid of either. It’s . . . everything. Losing everything. You know. This life I’ve built. Well, this lie I’ve built anyway.” I look away, my gaze on the dolls in the houses trying to scare us, pretending they have a life, like anything they do is real.
Gretchen nods.
Then, because evidently hell has just frozen over, and pigs are flying, she puts her hand in mine. “If you want to, and need help, I’ll be there.”
My throat clogs with a lump. I don’t know what this feeling is in my chest but it’s hard and heavy and beautiful all at the same time. I swallow the lump down and stare at her, taking in her gorgeous eyes, the furrow between her brows. Her awesome hair. Her awesome awesomeness. I’ve lost words.
She smiles at me and winks. “I mean, if you want to add me to the mix. Like, ‘Hey guys I’m gay, but worse, I’m friends with this girl. She’s on food stamps.’ I’ll bring my monster bag. They’ll love me.” I laugh so loud I make everyone turn around. They give each other looks and then keep walking. Dylan gives us a sad smile but turns around and gives us space.
I hold her back a little and let everyone go on in front of us. I swallow and look her full on. “Friends?”
Gretchen lets go of my hand and looks down. She trains her beautiful eyes on me. They are soft. Vulnerable. My heart beats a little faster.
She says, “Honestly? I don’t know. I’m . . . I mean, there’s a lot to think about. And I’m with Dylan. Though . . .” She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I think we both know we’re meant to be family, not together-together. But, mostly, I’m still getting used to not hating you right now. I have years of practice doing that, you know.” She gives me a wry smile.
I nod, but I feel my stomach drop. That answers my next question then. Which was about being a little more than friends . . . But that was just a stupid thought anyway. A hopeless one. One I’m used to feeling since I knew I was gay when I was, like, a little girl: disappointment.
She takes my hand and squeezes it and then leans in and kisses my cheek, slow. Her lips are soft and I can smell her perfume. Something herbal and beautiful. She whispers, “But I’m not saying it’s off the table.”
Then she lets go of my hand and catches up with the others, falling in step next to Paul who points ahead of them. She nods at him, but then turns back to me and flashes a smile that makes my insides melt. What a tease. But for now? I’ll take it.
I hear behind me, “You go, girl!” and look down at the wizard, who is holding up his hand for a high-five. I shrug, my smile so wide it hurts, and high-five him.
VIOLET
I’m walking next to Ashley and Gretchen with a satisfying repeating thought swirling around my head. You suck, Mr. Rhinehart.
If I get out of this House alive, I swear I’m going to . . . be mean to him, somehow. Oh, yes, I’ll be mean.
Gretchen comes up to me as we walk past cases of tiny circus scenes that come to life when we pass—somehow we went from dollhouses to circus scenes—and asks like she was in my head, “Are you going to tell someone about Mr. Rhinehart?”
Ashley, who comes up on the other side of me, says, “If you don’t want to tell anyone, you better do something.” She nudges her elbow into me. “I’d be happy to help. I’m pretty good at making someone’s life miserable.”
I laugh and so does Gretchen. Hey. Gretchen laughed. Hey! They’re smiling at each other.
But I snap back to the question, putting a finger up to my chin. “You know, I think I might just send a nice, anonymous note to the school. And to his wife. I don’t want my parents to find out. They’d be heartbroken.” The shame sword shoots through me again, feeling like it’s ripping my insides out. I drop my finger.
“Hey,” Ashley says, her voice soft. “They’d understand, you know.”
I swallow down tears and nod. That’s just something people say. They totally wouldn’t. Gretchen says, “But I get it.” Then she looks at me with her intense look, the one that scares the ever-living crap out of me. “You stop that man. He will do it again, you understand? He’ll do it again. But more importantly, he hurt you. And he should pay. He’s the one who should be ashamed, not you.”
Ashley lets out a grunt of frustration. “I’m so fucking sick of being a girl sometimes, you know? Such skeezy guys out there, doing shady things, getting away with it.” Anger boils up inside of me. Gretchen nods next to me. We are one line of angry girl. And we are terrifying.
Come at us, House. Come at us.
Dylan says, “Hey, chicas, slow down.” And as one, we three turn around and glare at him. He steps back like he’s been physically hit.
“Uh, sorry, yo. I mean, however fast yo
u want to go is how fast we should go.”
Paul’s beautiful face is alarmed. He says, “You are all pretty.”
Gretchen says, “Because that’s how our worth is determined? By how we look?”
The anger spills out, even at Paul, so I say, “If we weren’t pretty, would you stop listening to us?”
Paul says, “And smart?”
Dylan adds, “And, like, totally wicked strong.”
Men. But Dylan and Paul are great people—I’ve seen it all through this House. And Paul is just dreamy. So I smile at them both and they smile back. We are looking at each other now, I notice. All of us. We’re looking at each other. And I realize: I love these people. I didn’t know them however many hours ago. And now I love them.
Maybe the House isn’t so bad after all.
We reach a corner and turn in to a small anteroom.
And come face-to-face with one of the freakiest clowns I have ever seen in my life.
The thing is in a glass case, thank all that is holy, but has an oversized clown head and lifelike wrinkled hands. Its big red mouth curves into a smile. And then it starts laughing. The loudest, creepiest laugh that makes me pee my pants a little.
Bad House.
I jump back into Paul, who has jumped back and bumped into yet another glass case that lines the walls. The five of us are pressed against each other and the glass case behind us, staring at the clown.
Paul whispers, “Holy shit.” And I just nod. He’s right.
I say, “Perhaps we should go?” as the clown starts beating the glass case, laughing louder and sending chills down my spine.
“Yes,” says Ashley. “Yes, let’s do.” And the five of us sidestep as one away from the clown and onto the ramp of the circus room.
Things are getting real again. Adrenaline spikes shoot up my spine.
The clown is so scary, I almost forget the larger room we are walking into. But then I hear the elephant’s trumpet. And I scream and look up.
