Bombshell

by Rowan Maness

  I’d invited them over after school, unable to face a second night at home alone. Shane and Leah were there too, inside the house, Leah upset with Shane for getting everyone stoned on Kit’s forgotten weed.

  “Do you remember when we were obsessed with giving ourselves heat stroke?” I asked Rhiannon. She shushed me but nodded, continuing to exchange Marcos and Polos with Trevor.

  Intentional heat stroke had been my discovery. I’d fallen asleep on a pool raft on a 115-degree day, and when I woke, my vision was burned out. I stumbled into the bathroom off the patio, sure I’d gone blind, and climbed into the shower, turning on the cold water, slumping onto the tile.

  I passed out and came to for a few seconds before passing out again. The effect was hallucinatory. I still couldn’t see, but my ears rang with a complex melody of muffled voices, stringed instruments, and pounding drumbeats. As soon as my vision returned and I realized I wasn’t going to die, I wanted to do it again. When I told Rhiannon about it, she went through the process too—lying in the sun until she couldn’t take it any longer, sitting under ice-cold water. It was addictive.

  James: Are you serious?

  I’d just told James that I thought maybe we shouldn’t meet after all.

  Me: I don’t want to ruin what we have.

  James: It’s been long enough, Rosie.

  Me: What if you don’t like me?

  James: Not possible

  Me: The pics I’ve sent are the prettiest version of me

  James: I don’t care

  Me: One thousand discarded selfies

  Me: There are so many ways to dislike people IRL

  “Marco!”

  “Polo!” Rhiannon screamed, cannonballing right next to Trevor, landing with a huge splash.

  “Hey!” I yelled, wiping water off my phone.

  Shane and Leah came out onto the patio. I squinted at them. Leah looked angry.

  “Joss, tell Trevor that story you told us about Conor Oberst baking pot brownies for Kit,” Rhiannon said.

  “No,” I refused. “I’m frying my brain.”

  “Please,” Rhiannon insisted. “He wants to hear. Don’t you, Trevor?”

  “Brain, brain, what is brain?” Trevor shouted, lifting Rhiannon onto his shoulders.

  “Kit is stupid,” I said, standing. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “So sad.” Rhiannon pouted.

  Rosie: Can you get back to the astral plane?

  If James and Rosie could go there again, maybe the Dream Palace could be saved. Or, if it couldn’t, if it was too far gone, James and I could build a new one, together. Deleting Anna and Emma left me grasping. I felt helpless, waiting for Believer’s next move, all the idols on my altar set to crumble.

  I closed my eyes and focused on James, bringing his face to the front of my mind.

  Leah Leary’s voice cut through my daydream. She was saying she’d heard there was going to be a “teacher dunk tank” at field day on Friday.

  “I’m going to sneak Trevor in,” Rhiannon said, then, asking Shane, “Do you have an extra Brophy shirt he could wear?”

  “No problem.”

  “Are you sure?” Leah objected. “They plan these events based on a head count—”

  I groaned, standing up, the backs of my thighs peeling off the flagstone deck.

  “Trevor has to come,” Rhiannon explained. “He’s my emotional support animal.”

  Trevor barked like a dog, wrestling Rhiannon under the water.

  • • •

  I was standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom when I heard the crash.

  Pretending the reflection was Rosie, wondering if she carried herself differently. She probably stood up straighter—I pulled my shoulders back. I never smiled with my teeth, but she might. I tried that, too. Then the sound interrupted—the blinds at my window suddenly askew, jangling, something landing with a heavy thud on the floor.

  The house alarm blared—

  “INTRUDER, INTRUDER, INTRUDER”

  Footsteps on the stairs. Trevor, rummaging around in the kitchen, heard me scream.

  He ran to the window and yanked up the blinds. I stood, frozen, as he looked from the shattered pane to a large rock on the carpet, comprehending the situation, a wild grin spreading across his face.

  “Punks!” he shouted, and ran out of the room. The alarm kept shouting “INTRUDER,” and above it I could hear more commotion downstairs—the others, wondering what was happening.

  Heart pounding, I approached the window.

  I put my hand through the hole. There was a force passing through it, a subtle sucking wind, like the house’s armor had been pierced and now something was leaking out into the night.

  Something moved across the street. A rustling in the hedge separating two houses. A figure, trying to stay hidden. I could make out hiking boots and, higher up, a baseball cap.

  I jerked my hand back, scraping it badly on the jagged glass.

  The man stepped into view. I recognized him.

  It’s the neighbor. Just the neighbor.

  The alarm finally shut off. In the eerie silence I heard the faint jingle of a bell coming from down the street. My dad was always worried about the cat escaping. He got the bell after she bolted out the front door and almost got hit by a car.

  Ferris.

  The coyote will get her.

  I ran downstairs, flying past Shane, Leah, and Rhiannon in the foyer, out the door Trevor had left open, nearly running into him on the sidewalk.

  “I didn’t see anyone!” he shouted after me.

  At the end of the block, I slowed down and stayed very still, listening for Ferris’s bell. A light breeze whipped my hair across my face and carried the bell sound deceptively close one way, deceptively far the other.

  I crossed through to the greenbelt, forcing myself to look carefully at each dark spot, behind every rock. I checked inside a large cement water pipe that emptied there. I was looking for Ferris but also daring the coyote to show his face again. Trying to be as fearsome and intrusive as he and Believer were.

  The bell sound continued, and I kept going, calling for the cat every so often.

  “Ferris! Psst, psst!”

  Then the bell, then nothing, and always a glimpse, behind or ahead, of flashing eyes, of the strange figure stalking the edge of my perception.

  I walked all the way to the main entrance of the neighborhood—up to the two big gates with an empty guardhouse in between. Beyond the gates a stretch of flat, manicured grass bordered with rows of bright flowers. Backlit iron letters spelled out the name of the neighborhood.

  An entrance so much more grand than the neighborhood really was, so everyone could feel their money well spent.

  There’s a fence! House cats stay inside! Coyotes stay out! Bad neighborhoods don’t have names like The Estates at Corazon Point. Everybody knows that!

  “It wasn’t Believer,” Shane said, touching my shoulder. I whirled around.

  We had a whole conversation without actually saying any words.

  Yes it was! It’s Believer, and he’s here, and he’s going to murder me in my sleep tonight.

  That’s really unlikely. It was probably just some idiot kid. Calm down.

  Don’t tell me to calm down.

  You’re bleeding.

  I know.

  The cat’s bell tinkled. Shane heard it too.

  We walked toward the sound together.

  “Are you seeing things again?” Shane blurted out, finally asking the question that was following him like a cloud.

  Right, he guessed.

  “It’s not a problem.”

  Shane sighed. “This is the second time in two days you’ve been out roaming the streets barefoot.”

  “The cat got out!” I said. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Put shoes on? Bring a flashlight and a bag of cat treats?”

  My phone buzzed.

  Rhiannon: Trev wants to know where’s the duct tape?
<
br />   “Rhiannon,” I said to Shane, who clearly wanted to know.

  I stopped walking and looked at him, with his new long hair and his crossed arms. Regarding me with something too much like pity.

  “You used to see what I saw.”

  “In my imagination, yeah,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “For real.”

  “We were kids. Playing pretend.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I can’t say anything to you,” Shane said. “You’re bleeding and hallucinating and being stalked and still I can’t say anything to you.”

  We were in front of the electrical box. I hoisted myself up, leaving Shane in the street.

  The cat was lying there, completely relaxed, belly down on the warm, humming metal.

  “Found her!” I shouted. The adrenaline in my system was wearing off and my hand hurt. I sat next to Ferris and pressed my palm against the box while I wrote out a text and sent it to Believer.

  Me: Was that you just now?

  Shane climbed up—the cat flopped over onto her back, purring for him to pet her.

  “You can say shit to me,” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  “You can say shit to me,” I repeated, louder. “You’re the only one I’ve told about any of this. I wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t trust you to know what to do with it.”

  “Okay,” he said. “First step, tell Nina.”

  I started to say No, but held back. If Shane heard me say no to something he suggested one more time, he’d probably push me off the box.

  “Give me some time?” I asked. “Like a couple weeks?”

  I’ll be gone. I’ll be Rosie. I’ll be new.

  Shane looked skeptical.

  “I just want to see if I can figure this out on my own,” I said, not even convincing myself. I didn’t want to figure it out. I just wanted to get out from under it.

  “What is it?” Shane asked, meaning, What are you seeing this time, Joss? The same old ghost? A new one?

  A louche coyote who walks like a human and teases you when you make mistakes?

  “Let’s go,” I said, deflecting, not wanting to share that even with Shane.

  • • •

  Later, after Shane and Leah left and Rhiannon and Trevor settled in to watch a movie before sleeping over, I locked the door to my bedroom, crossed into the attached bathroom that separated my room from Dylan’s, and drew myself a bath.

  While the tub filled, I searched for my iPod, finally finding it in the front pocket of my backpack. I synced it to a pair of Bluetooth speakers and set everything on the side of the tub.

  I eased myself in to the scalding-hot water, wincing as it washed over the scrapes on my legs and the cut on my hand. Even though Believer hadn’t responded to my text asking if he was responsible for the rock throwing, I blamed him for all of my injuries. They were physical signs, proof of his growing presence in my life. I hid the cuts beneath bubbles and lay back in the tub, listening to the music.

  I believe in the sentience of shuffle—that if you let it, the random string of songs will tell you something. Provide the answer to a question or clues about new paths. I hoped it would clarify some things.

  After a couple old favorites, shuffle chose a song I’d never heard before. I was sure I hadn’t downloaded it. I reached for the iPod and looked at the screen.

  The artist and track names had been deleted. The album artwork was blank. The only identifying information was a phone number in the place where the song’s title should have been.

  Fear gripped me. Believer, outside my house. Believer’s hand wrapping around my iPod—

  Then I remembered who had it last. It had been in my backpack ever since.

  I took my phone from the lip of the tub and typed in the phone number.

  Me: So, that’s your move?

  A second later.

  4805559516: Who is this?

  Me: iPod

  4805559516: Oh.

  4805559516: Hello.

  Me: Who’s saying hello?

  Me: I already know. . . .

  4805559516: It’s Miles.

  Me: So, Miles. This is your move?

  Miles: I didn’t think it would actually work

  Me: You regret it?

  Miles: I’m afraid I don’t.

  Me: Where are you? What do you do on Wednesday nights?

  Miles: I’m at home.

  Me: Alone?

  Miles: Yes. And you?

  Me: I’m taking a bath.

  Miles: Really?

  I held the phone up high and angled it down, snapping a photo of my knees and toes sticking out of the bubbles.

  I sent it and watched the ellipses indicating that he was typing a response flash on, off, on, off as he was deciding what to say.

  Miles: Oh my.

  Me: It’s been a crazy night. This kind of makes perfect sense.

  Miles: I’m glad it makes sense.

  Me: Why’d you leave your phone number where you knew I’d find it?

  Miles: So we could talk.

  Me: Talk?

  Me: You want another picture?

  Miles: What do you think?

  Me: I think you’re dying for one.

  Miles: You’re right.

  This time I pointed the phone at my face and shoulders. After a few tries, I turned my head, so the photo would capture my profile from the nose down. I finally got one I liked, and sent it.

  In it, my eyes were downcast, and bubbles came up low on my chest. Wet strands of hair stuck to my collarbone. I’d dimmed the lights in the bathroom, and the water made my skin shine.

  Miles: Lovely.

  Miles: Did you suspect? That I was capable of this?

  Me: I could tell.

  Miles: I’ve been trying very hard to hide it.

  Me: Not that hard.

  My fingers were wrinkled. The water had gone cold.

  Me: I have to get out of this tub.

  Miles: Okay.

  Me: I should go to sleep.

  Miles: Yes.

  Me: Is that going to be enough?

  Miles: I don’t know.

  Me: Good night, Miles.

  The hole in the window was covered with a piece of cardboard. Rhiannon and Trevor had taped it there while Shane and I were out looking for the cat. When I lay down in bed it was right above me.

  I reached up and started peeling off the tape, meaning to do just a corner, but continuing until the cardboard fell, skidding down the wall behind my headboard.

  Air came in—watery and wet. For the first time in the year, I sensed impending rain.

  I was trying to remember a word.

  The phone buzzed.

  Believer: Yes, it was me.

  Western wind is called a zephyr. I’d read that somewhere. The zephyr made a warning out of its molecules and told me to watch for the drawing up of a storm.

  CHAPTER 16

  I woke to the sounds of the garage door rumbling open at five o’clock. I wandered downstairs, bleary-eyed, passing the intertwined mound of Rhiannon and Trevor asleep on the living room couch.

  My mom was in the kitchen, in full manic Nina power mode, doing a thousand things at once—making toast, loading the blender with frozen fruit and almond milk, brewing coffee, typing on her phone at warp speed. A news channel blared from the TV mounted on the wall.

  She barely registered my entrance.

  “I thought you were going to be back in the afternoon,” I said, sitting at the counter, wondering how angry she’d be about Rhiannon and Trevor.

  “Dylan’s coming home!” she trilled.

  “Have you been driving since, like, three in the morning?” I asked.

  “He’s coming home today!” Every sentence was a more offensive exclamation.

  I searched for and found the TV remote, using it to mute the awful news chatter.

  “Isn’t this great?”

  I decided to use her happiness against her.

  “Rhiannon�
��s asleep in the living room,” I said. She continued her whirl of activity, saying nothing. I added, “With her boyfriend, Trevor.”

  “I thought her boyfriend’s name was Justin?”

  “That was the last one,” I answered. “The last three, actually.”

  She started the blender, still typing on her phone.

  “Um, and someone threw a rock through the window in my bedroom.”

  That got her attention.

  “What! Who?” she said, focusing on me as her smoothie sloshed to the bottom of the blender.

  “Probably some guys from Brophy,” I mumbled.

  “Who? We should have them pay for the repair—”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure—”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Guys are idiots,” I said. She nodded. “So—that’s why Rhiannon stayed. I was scared.”

  “Oh,” she cooed, sidling up to me, squeezing my shoulders. “Poor baby. I missed your face. Your cute little face.”

  She squished my face against her neck.

  “Mom,” I whined, pushing away. “You know, the only reason you think I’m cute is because you’re genetically invested in me being cute.”

  “I’m what?”

  “Genetically invested,” I repeated. “I learned it in AP bio. The survival of your genes depends on me. And Dylan. That’s why you love us.”

  “I’m depending on you two for what? Immortality?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, if I’d known that, I would have had a few more children. Maybe then I would’ve gotten a good one.”

  She chuckled at her own burn and went back to buzzing around the kitchen. I poured myself a cup of coffee and zoned out, staring at the TV screen.

  A group of solemn people with huge, expressive faces were arranged at a semicircular desk in a room lit like a spaceship. From the cutaways to footage of bloodied women and children, I gathered they were talking about a misguided drone bombing. A scroll running across the bottom of the screen showed tweets about a celebrity couple breaking up.

  The closed captions lagged and backed up, then spit out at once in an incomprehensible block of text.

  ~#@af mol bar wed:

  normal war

  I held up my phone and zoomed in on “normal war” with the camera, snapping a shot of the drone graphic as it zoomed across a flat blue background toward a cartoon desert oasis. I uploaded it to Instagram.