A Girl Called Dust
(Book One of the Dust Trilogy)
V.B. Marlowe
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used factiously.
Copyright © 2016 by V.B. Marlowe. All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be copied or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Printed in the United States of America.
Cover design by: Rebecca Frank Art
A Girl Called Dust
(Book One of the Dust Trilogy)
V.B. Marlowe
Part One
Fletcher Whitelock
Chapter One
One Year Ago—Last Summer
I knew Fletcher Whitelock was a mystery to be solved the day he got whacked by a city bus.
Manor Street was never busy in the late morning, so I made myself comfortable on the bench in front of the old book store. The only places around were other out-of-business stores with boarded-up doors and windows. The solitude made the perfect atmosphere for journal writing. The moment couldn’t have been better. The scent of pine wafted from the woods, and a rare summer breeze blew through my ebony hair. Almost tempted to pull my long tresses back into a ponytail, I decided to let them flutter against my neck and shoulders. I’d just opened the new bag of trail mix I had picked up from the gas station and placed it beside me on the bench. The empty street was the prime place for me to get some of my many thoughts down on paper. With a therapy session coming up that following week, I wanted to give Dr. Scarlett something interesting to read.
I’d jotted down three words when Fletcher, pale and messy haired as usual, sprinted out of the woods at the same time the number 91 bus came rumbling down the deserted road. The sign over the bus’s dashboard read OFF DUTY.
I watched, waiting for Fletcher to stop, but he kept running, and the bus hurtled forward.
As soon as Fletcher stepped into the road, he and the bus collided. He flew like a wet towel that had been tossed to the side and landed a good ten feet away. The bus came to a screeching stop as I leapt to my feet, dropping my journal and sending trail mix all over the sidewalk.
My heart throbbed swiftly as if trying to keep up with my rapid breathing. Fletcher lay crumpled in the street, and the bus sat still. The world fell deathly quiet.
Whoosh.
The doors on the other side of the bus slid open, and the tubby driver hobbled out in his untucked uniform shirt marred with armpit stains. Standing in front of the bus, he grabbed his gray curls, gaping at Fletcher. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”
My body wouldn’t allow me to move or reach for my cell phone like I should have been doing. What I had just witnessed was nothing like the bus scene from the movie Final Destination. That had been pretend for entertainment. Fletcher was a real person and this was real life.
I stood there paralyzed, hoping I had imagined the whole thing, but then Fletcher jumped up, twisted his head from side to side, dusted himself off, and limped off into the woods.
The bus driver and I locked eyes for what seemed like forever. Blinking. Staring. Breathing. That was all I could do. Finally, the driver cursed again, climbed back into the bus, and drove off, leaving the smell of exhaust to linger in the air.
It wasn’t until the bus was out of sight that I could move again. I dug my phone out of the pocket of my dress. As I dialed 9-1-1, I ran into the woods where Fletcher had gone. He must have been experiencing some kind of delayed reaction. I’d seen that happen when my father had hit a dog in the road years before. It wasn’t Dad’s fault. The dog had come out of nowhere, not giving Dad enough time to stop. He hit it, but the dog got right back on its feet and ran off. Dad pulled over, and we went to find it so I would stop crying. We’d discovered it dead in the alley behind the local dance studio. I just knew Fletcher had run off into the woods and died. I mean, who could survive getting hit by a bus like that?
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
“I-I, this is Arden Moss. I’m calling because I just saw a boy, Fletcher Whitelock, get hit by a bus.”
“Is he breathing?”
“I don’t know.” I tiptoed through the high grass, looking for Fletcher but not wanting to find him. What would it be like to see a dead body? “He got right back up and ran away. I don’t see him.”
I told the dispatcher where I was calling from, and she told me to stay put and that help was on the way. Back at the bench, I collected my journal and pen. I didn’t bother with the wasted trail mix. Birds and other foraging creatures would take care of it.
Word traveled fast in a small town like Everson Woods. Once the police and ambulance arrived, it only took moments for a small group of rubberneckers to gather. The paramedics and several officers had gone into the woods to search. Hopefully they would have better luck finding Fletcher than I’d had.
“Do you know the person who got hit?” an officer asked from where we stood at the edge of the woods.
“Yeah, the new kid. Fletcher Whitelock.” Fletcher and his family had only moved to town a few months before. I gave them the bus number and a description of the driver.
I told the police several times what I had seen, but they acted as if they didn’t believe me. I guessed without a bus or a body, it was a hard story to sell, so I couldn’t blame them. At least they had noticed skid marks on the road.
Officer Putney drove me to the police station, where he took my statement. He gave me lemon sandwich cookies that I hated and canned ice tea that was much too sweet, but I ate and drank to be polite. I munched on the snacks while the officer stared me down with inquisitive brown eyes. Trying to focus on his questions instead of the unruly halo of auburn hair that circled his bald spot was quite a task.
A younger officer stuck his head in. “A word, sir?”
Officer Putney nodded and gave me a small smile. “Be right back.”
I looked around the office, making a mental list.
A pen could pierce my throat.
The ceiling could collapse.
Shards of glass from the television exploding could slice my jugular.
I could be impaled by the flagpole sitting in the corner.
I didn’t know how or why, but anytime I entered a room I ran through every possible way I could die in that very place. I couldn’t stop the thoughts no matter how hard I tried. That was the main reason I had to see Dr. Scarlett every other week.
Officer Putney came back and settled into his desk chair. He looked me up and down for a moment before speaking. “You say it was Fletcher Whitelock you saw get hit by a bus?”
“Yeah. Did they find him? Is he alive?” I didn’t know Fletcher at all, but I didn’t want him to be dead.
Putney cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Ms. Moss, we sent officers to Fletcher’s house. He’s fine. There’s not a scratch on him. More importantly, he says he wasn’t hit by a bus.”
The officer’s words stunned me into silence. How could that be? Was I crazy? Maybe, but I saw what I saw. Hadn’t I?
“Ms. Moss, is this your idea of a joke? Using our time and resources—”
“No! I’m not playing around. I saw that kid get hit by a bus. I saw him get right back up a minute later and run off. I swear. Ask the bus driver.”
Putney frowned and folded his hands in front of him. �
�We talked to Gus Chavez. He was the one driving the bus, and he says nothing happened today out of the ordinary, including him hitting someone. I don’t know what you got out of this, but it can’t happen again. We could press criminal charges, but since you seem to be a good kid and haven’t been in trouble before, we’re going to let you go with a warning.”
I couldn’t believe it. I was in trouble? Fletcher had run into the street without looking. Gus had hit him and then drove off, not even checking to see if he was okay, but I was in trouble?
I opened my mouth to argue, but Putney held his hands up. “Your mother’s on the way to pick you up.”
That was probably worse than any other undeserved punishment he could have given me. My mother had been disappointed with me since birth, and having to pick me up from the police station wasn’t going to help. It would be another topic to discuss with Scarlett and another reason for my family to treat me like a science experiment gone wrong.
I waited in the lobby while my mom spoke with Officer Putney in his office, and I spent the whole time wondering what they were saying about me. Probably that I was crazy and looking for attention, but neither was true. The last thing I wanted was attention. I was perfectly fine with blending into the scenery. I wasn’t crazy either. Just a little weird.
Fifteen minutes later, Mom stormed out of Putney’s office red faced, with her blond hair whipping behind her. She didn’t even look at me as she rushed past. The only thing worse than Mom’s disappointed look was when she wouldn’t look at me at all. I had to run to keep up with her, afraid she might leave me at the station.
By the time I made it to the car, Mom was already climbing in. I opened the passenger door and slid in beside her. “Mom . . .”
She raised a freshly manicured hand. Mom had a standing Saturday-morning appointment at the nail salon. From looks of her other hand, which only had two polished nails, I knew her appointment had been interrupted. Nothing was more important to Mom than looking perfect, so she was probably going to murder me when we got home. “Arden, don’t even,” she said through gritted teeth. “Do you have any idea what it does to a mother’s heart to get a call from the police about her daughter? I thought you were hurt or dead.” She was probably hoping for it then.
I was about to plead my case when Gus, the bus driver, ambled out of the police station’s glass doors.
“Mom, please wait one second.” Before she could protest, I hopped out of the car and followed Gus. My mom would actually pull off and leave me, but that was a risk I was willing to take.
Gus fumbled with his keys, trying to unlock the door of his pickup truck, when I reached him.
“Hey, Gus?”
He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Please go away.” Why wouldn’t anyone let me get out a sentence?
Obviously he didn’t want to hear anything I had to say, but I kept talking anyway. “Why did you tell them nothing happened? We both saw what happened.”
Gus looked around us and then back at me. “Listen, I got a family to take care of and two more years until retirement. I can’t lose my job. Just drop it, please. I don’t know how, but that kid’s perfectly fine, so no harm done. Just let it go.”
I watched him climb into his pickup. His answer was good enough for me. Getting Gus in trouble wasn’t my goal. I just needed to know that I wasn’t crazy and that what I’d seen had really happened.
But how? How does a person get hit by a bus and remain uninjured? There wasn’t a scratch on him. Mom blasted her horn, and I couldn’t think about that anymore. I had to come up with a reasonable explanation for that whole strange morning before my parents signed me over to a mental institution.
Three days later, I bumped into Fletcher shopping at Gerdy’s Goods, the store five blocks from my house that sold a little of everything. The trip to Gerdy’s was my first time out of the house since the bus incident. My parents had grounded me for being a liar and a nuisance to our local law enforcement, who had better things to do than to follow up on accidents that had never really happened. School would be starting in a month, and I wanted to pick up some suntan lotion so I could enjoy every remaining moment soaking up the summer rays.
A man held the door open for me. I stepped inside prepared for the grim barrage of thoughts that would inevitably flood my mind.
A car could careen through the plate-glass windows and slam into me.
The freezer that holds the popsicles could explode.
The tall shelf that holds those stone statues people put in their gardens could tip over, burying me underneath the heavy figurines.
The canoe Gerdy has hanging from the ceiling for some reason could fall and smash me.
So many ways to die in Gerdy’s.
I was reading the labels of two bottles of suntan lotion, trying to decide which I should get, when I saw him. Fletcher walked around with a small basket packed with odds and ends. He stopped in the freezer section, staring at the ice cream sandwiches for a long time.
Fletcher was strange. When he’d first moved to Everson Woods, he was all anyone could talk about, mostly because of his looks. He was pale, with copper hair that hung over his right eye and pink pouty lips that women paid money for. But once people realized that he talked funny—flat and monotone—and did things that made no sense, like staring at ice cream sandwiches, no one wanted anything to do with him.
Once Fletcher lost interest in the frozen desserts, he walked toward the register. I stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“Hey, what happened the other day?”
He frowned, his bushy eyebrows scrunching together. “What?”
“What happened the other day?”
He sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Lots of things happen every day. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Okay, Saturday morning when you got hit by a bus. You hopped right back up and ran off as if nothing happened.”
He lowered his basket and set it on the ground. “I’m just picking up a few things my mom wanted me to get.”
“What the hell does that have to do with what I just said?”
He stared at me for a moment and then turned abruptly, heading for the door. I placed the bottles of suntan lotion on a shelf and followed him outside and onto the sidewalk.
“Hey! You’re going to tell me the truth. I got in a lot of trouble because of you. All I did was call 9-1-1 so you wouldn’t die. I deserve an explanation.”
Fletcher stopped walking so suddenly that I bumped into him. He turned and glared at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Go away.”
I put my hands on my hips, hoping I didn’t look like my mother. I hated when people lied to me, especially while looking me dead in the eyes. “Who gets hit by a bus anyway? Didn’t you hear it? No one ever taught you to look both ways before you cross the street?”
Fletcher opened his mouth to say something then stopped. He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out his keys. Among the keys was something red and oval shaped. With a flick of his hand, the oval-shaped thing produced a small blade.
I stepped back, thinking I was about to die right there on that sidewalk. He could slice my throat. Stab me in the heart. Gut my belly. But why? All I’d been trying to do was help him.
Moving back again, I put my hands up. Why wasn’t I running? It’s true what they said. You never knew how you’d act in a dangerous situation until you were in one. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
But Fletcher didn’t hurt me. He dug the blade into the skin of his wrist and dragged it upward. I screamed, at least I thought I did, but I wasn’t sure if any sound came out. Blood trickled down his arm and onto the sidewalk. I prepared to haul ass to get as far away from him as I could when Fletcher’s self-imposed wound changed. The bleeding stopped, and the cut disappeared as flesh covered it like a Band-Aid. After a few more seconds, the wound was totally gone. Even the drops of blood had disappeared from the sidewalk.
I wanted to scream again, but the sound stuck in my
throat. “How? How did you do that?”
Fletcher slid his keys back into his pocket and leaned in close to me. “I’m different . . . like you.”
Chapter Two
Fletcher and I became inseparable after the incident in front of Gerdy’s. I didn’t like him at first. He was weird—weirder than me, and extremely rude—but the mystery of him kept me intrigued. Was he some kind of alien? Fletcher made me promise to keep his miracle a secret, and I did. I liked the fact that he was my secret no one else knew about.
Whenever I asked him how his arm had healed so fast, he’d tell me that I wasn’t ready and that he’d let me know when I was. I thought he was only saying that because he wanted me to keep hanging out with him. I had gone from thinking Fletcher was a nuisance to feeling as if I would fall apart without him. He didn’t have any other friends, and neither did I.
Not that I was Miss Social Butterfly of the Year or anything, but Fletcher was the most socially awkward person I’d ever met. I had to teach him everything almost like he was a toddler. Sometimes while I was journaling in the park, he’d walk up behind me and just blurt something out, scaring the hell out of me. Then sometimes I’d be talking to him and midsentence, he’d just walk away. I thought I’d finally gotten him to understand that you should greet a person upon meeting them, you don’t just walk up and start talking about some random thing. And when you had to leave, you’re supposed to say “I have to go” or “Goodbye” or something.
I tried to be patient with Fletcher. The only time I’d ever really yelled at him was when he’d dug all the chocolate chips out of my trail mix without asking. I didn’t like chocolate chips and I always threw them away, but still. It was the principle.
“Where are you from?” I asked him one day.
He glanced to the right. “Alaska.” Then he added after a brief pause, “Kodiak, Alaska. But don’t ask me questions about it. It was boring there, and I don’t like to think about it.”
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