Gravestone

by Travis Thrasher

  Kelsey describes the porch on the back of her grandparents’ house, and I see her painting with new appreciation.

  “What about yours?”

  “This is what I first thought and felt when I walked the hallways of Harrington.”

  She laughs in this cute way that makes me want to keep joking around. So I do. Saying nothing really; she’s just being polite, and she’s easy to make laugh. But laughter never gets old to listen to. Ever. And someone smiling at you never gets old either.

  It’s a nice break. It’s nice not to be glared at. It’s nice not to be ignored.

  It’s nice to just have something …

  Normal.

  “Do you live in Solitary?”

  “Lowden, technically,” she says.

  Maybe not having a technical address is a good thing.

  “Do you think you’re going to be here next year?” Kelsey asks.

  “I really hope so. I mean, I don’t know what I’d do at a school where people actually like me.”

  “It’s not all that bad.”

  I give her a really?? expression, and she laughs. Maybe she’s not laughing with me but more at me and my expressions.

  “It’s not bad all the time,” she says.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “People can’t help where they’re from.”

  She says this in a slightly defensive manner, and when I glance at her she’s looking at her painting.

  “I know that,” I say. “Really. It’s just this place, that’s all.”

  Kelsey nods, but I think I pushed it a little too far.

  The joking stops and my attempts at conversation stall, and I leave the class feeling like the dork I felt like when I walked in.

  Like I said, girls.

  I mean, come on.

  What is their deal?

  26. The Prisoner

  I’m in the restroom when I see Gus and his boys walk in. I think it’s the same one that we were in when they cornered me in the stall and forced me to go militant all over them.

  “Relax,” Gus says. “You look like you’re auditioning for the next Karate Kid movie.”

  “What do you want?”

  Gus looks back at Oli and the two other clowns he’s with, then comes and stands next to me at the sinks. He washes his hands and watches me.

  “So we’re all cool, right?” he asks. “After that nice little chat with my pop?”

  I nod. Oli is looking at me but giving away nothing.

  It seems like Gus is biding his time. He moves and checks down the line of stalls, then nods to the guys. Oli goes and stands by the door. Burt goes over to make sure I don’t hide in a stall while Riley stands close to Oli.

  Gus looks at me, laughs, then darts in my direction and grips the top of my T-shirt with his hand, bringing me forward and off my feet. He pulls me down, and in one motion I crash against the floor and then feel him pulling me back up.

  Something’s in his hand it’s a knife.

  Then something pricks at my temple.

  It’s not a knife but the edge of a very sharp pencil that digs into my skin.

  He presses hard as he moves his head to my ear. “Now you listen and you listen good. We’re not finished, you and I. And just because my pop said that everything’s fine and dandy doesn’t mean it’s fine and dandy.”

  I yell as he digs the pencil in further.

  “I could take this and put it in your eye just for starters. And don’t think I won’t. I will.”

  My eyes are closed, and I’m wondering what’s next.

  I hear someone else speak, but Gus curses over the voice. “When the time comes, when nobody is looking, I’m going to be there.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I don’t want anything. Not a thing. I just want to watch you bleed.”

  I howl as he thrusts the pencil deeper, then lets it go.

  “You tell anybody about this and it will just get worse for you. But I don’t want you walking around thinking you’re safe.”

  He lets go, and I grab the side of my face and hold it.

  He leans over me. “I don’t care what your last name is or what you may or may not do. When this—all of this—is over with, you’re mine.”

  He spits in my face, and I feel it splatter on my forehead, nose, and cheeks. I wipe it and watch Gus walk out, followed by the boys in boots and jeans and then Oli.

  I look down at my hand, which is covered in blood and spit. Then I glance at the doorway.

  Oli is still there. He looks like he’s about to say something, then he leaves.

  The dark prick on the side of my head is bleeding. I wash it with warm water that doesn’t really stop the bleeding; it only makes the pain worse.

  I glance briefly at myself in the mirror, my hair a bit wet, my face a bit red, the piece of tissue on my puncture.

  Chris.

  I open my eyes wide but don’t see myself anymore. I don’t see anyone. Instead, I see an image of something real, something alive, something like a scene in a movie.

  What …

  I close my eyes and open them again.

  There I am.

  What was that?

  I realize I just imagined a cabin or a small house with a porch on it. A swing. Sometime in the afternoon. Just like that girl’s painting.

  I’m seeing things, and it’s because I can’t control my head. I can’t control the earthquake going on inside it.

  I leave the bathroom, remembering the first time an altercation like this happened. That was the day I lost the letter for Jocelyn, a letter that would change everything.

  I’d give anything if I could go back and be given one more night, Jocelyn.

  I’m walking around with a bloody piece of toilet paper on the side of my forehead, but nobody cares. I could have a missing limb, a squirting and bloody stump like the kind in funny horror movies. I could be spraying these kids around me, and they still wouldn’t care. They’d go on laughing and leering and looking my way. They’d keep ignoring me, keep wondering what my name is and why I moved from Chicago and why I am so stuck-up/full of myself/quiet/shy/snobbish/fill in the negative blank.

  I am a loaded gun, full of blanks.

  When I enter Mr. Meiners’ room for history a bit early, he surprises me by asking about the wound.

  “What happened, Chris? Who did this to you?”

  “Oh, you know,” I say.

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Just the same old story.”

  “Hold on.” He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a white handkerchief. “It’s clean.”

  I pick the dried clump of bloody tissue away from my skin and apply the soft fabric.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re getting close, Chris.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Mr. Meiners shakes his head. I can see the smile underneath the beard, the friendly smile and the open eyes.

  I go to my seat and know there’s absolutely no way I’ll be able to learn a thing the rest of this day.

  The bus rumbles like some old mule carrying too much weight up a hill. The outside resembles the Russia of World War II that Mr. Meiners was talking about. Cold, lifeless, in a state of shock. We’re prisoners on our way to a prisoner-of-war camp.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  It’s only January.

  The bus jerks to a halt, sending all of us against the backs of the seats in front of us.

  I need a license and then a car and a map, and I can leave.

  I’m near the back of the bus and see a curly-haired guy with glasses eating a candy bar and watching me. I nod.

  Then he stops chewing, as if something is wrong, as if somebody actually noticed this strange weird eating trance that he’s in.

  He looks at the rest of his candy bar, a Milky Way, and shoves the whole thing into his mouth. He chews it quickly, as if he’s in a contest. Or as if he thinks I might try and grab it from him.

  I gotta get out
of here.

  My hand rubs the edge of my temple where there’s a nice, healthy scab.

  “How was your day, son?” an imaginary mom might ask me.

  “Same old story,” an imaginary son might say back. “Got stabbed with a pencil. Insulted by a couple of girls.”

  “Why aren’t you at track practice?” she’d ask.

  I curse to myself.

  I totally forgot about it.

  Too late now.

  I can hear Coach Brinks. “Where’s Chicago? Somebody tell me where Chicago is! We’re running a five mile for no reason other than I hate you all, so where is Chicago?”

  Candy-bar boy is still looking at me.

  “Buddy, come on,” I say.

  Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to understand English, because he just keeps watching until, fifteen minutes later, he stands up for his stop.

  He leaves me a parting gift before he gets off. The wrapper for his Milky Way.

  Nice.

  27. Ghosts

  My future is waiting for me on the counter when I come home.

  “Some drunken fool came up to me and passed it along.”

  Are you talking about yourself, Mom?

  “He said that she pays really well.”

  Then maybe you should take the job.

  I pick up the tiny, cut-out block of paper with a typed job listing.

  Wanted: Strong teenager who works hard. Groundskeep, maintenance, indoor and outdoor work. Flexible hours.

  There’s a number at the bottom of the sheet.

  “You trust the guy who gave it to you?”

  “Al validated it. This guy who gave it to me likes me. He knew I was asking about a job for you. Said that the owner, Iris, pays well. If you don’t mind the reputation of the place she owns.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Do you have any other ideas?”

  “There’s a mountain man with big dogs who wants me to take care of them. Says he’ll pay me in raw meat. That may or may not be human.”

  “That’s not even funny.”

  “I’m not joking,” I say.

  And a part of me isn’t.

  “Did you already call?” I ask her.

  “You have a job interview this weekend.”

  “Oh, come on. Where is this?”

  “It’s a place called the Crag’s Inn.”

  I lean against the couch as I watch my mom, who seems a bit lost in the kitchen. “Are you serious?”

  “Very.”

  “The Crag’s Inn? Mom.”

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what’? The name alone sounds creepy. Like the hag’s inn.”

  “You’re going to go unless you give me an alternative.”

  “Why this sudden rush of me needing to get a job?”

  “You need to keep occupied.”

  “Track’s not enough?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be there now?”

  “Yeah. I forgot.”

  “You need to keep busy. Or else you’ll get in trouble. Like back home.”

  “Why are you bringing that up now?” I ask.

  I look in the fridge for something to drink and grab a can of generic diet soda that tastes exactly like generic diet soda.

  “Chris, this job pays very well.”

  “Where is this Crag’s Inn?”

  “A twenty-minute drive.”

  “You going to take me?”

  She smiles. “We need to think about getting that license, and then maybe you can drive yourself.”

  “In what car?”

  “First things first.”

  I put the note down on the counter and stare at it.

  I have a bad feeling about this.

  Turns out I should have a bad feeling about it.

  Turns out that everybody knows about the Crag’s Inn and the lady named Iris who runs it. How many ways can you say haunted house?

  Ray confronts me to see why I missed practice. I tell him I got sick, which is true because I did get suddenly and violently sick of Harrington High. I bring up the Crag’s Inn.

  “A job? There? Are you high?”

  “My mom was told it pays well.”

  “I’m sure selling crack pays well too. Doesn’t mean you should do it.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  He just shakes his head. “Man, being new sucks, doesn’t it?” He laughs and walks away.

  Thanks a lot, Ray.

  I ask Newt about it over lunch, since Newt is my one and only lunch buddy again. His eyes grow big behind the spectacles; his mouth opens slightly.

  “What? Is it haunted or something?”

  “No, not something,” Newt says. “It is haunted. Without question.”

  “Come on.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “No. It takes forever to get to. Some dirt road that winds around like a coiled snake. It’s on the edge of the mountaintop. A cliff.”

  “And what’s wrong about it?”

  “Do you just want trouble, Chris?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it. Someone recommended it to my mom.”

  He shifts in his chair. As usual, he peers around to see if anybody is watching. Then he lowers his head and talks in a whisper.

  “The lady who runs this inn—it’s kinda like a bed-and-breakfast—they say she’s crazy. Iris. Years ago lost her husband, and her children abandoned her. Turned into a recluse. They say …”

  “What do they say?” I know I’ve seen a lot around here, but I still can’t help being cynical.

  “People who have stayed there don’t leave.”

  I make an oooohhhhh sound and exaggerate the look on my face.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So, what? Does she eat them or something?”

  “A couple went there on their honeymoon. They were driving across the country, staying at quaint little inns. The wife slipped off the side of the mountain and died.”

  “And you think this Iris pushed her?”

  Newt is undaunted. “A guy in my gym class last year went up there with some buddies one night. He said he saw weird things—lights flickering in the windows even though no car was parked there. All these animals coming out of nowhere, like groundhogs and foxes and birds. And they weren’t scared, not up at this place. And then the guys were freaked out by some ghost. They said it was Iris herself, who isn’t alive but is a ghost of a woman who was killed by her husband—”

  “Newt, come on,” I say. “Are you making this up?”

  “No. I swear. It happened. The guy said they were attacked by the animals, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m telling you—everybody knows it. That place is haunted. And that lady is crazy. That’s why nobody wants to work for her.”

  “Isn’t this whole place haunted?” I ask. “Isn’t everybody around here crazy? What’s one more?”

  “Shh, keep your voice down.”

  “Maybe all ghosts aren’t bad. Maybe there are some ghosts that I want to talk to.”

  Newt squirms in his seat and gives me an exasperated look. “Why?”

  “Unfinished business,” I say.

  28. In My Sleep

  I haven’t forgotten.

  Not in the least.

  It wakes up with me like a hangover. It’s in the mirror like a black eye. It walks with me like a pulled muscle. It hears the same silence I hear. It sees the same glances I see. It comes home to an empty house. It needs answers like an unfinished crossword puzzle. It kisses me to sleep like the bite of a spider hiding under the covers.

  I have not forgotten.

  What I’m trying to do is make sure I have a plan and make sure I have my sanity. Maybe just not in that order.

  My hope lies in this stranger named Jared. Not Newt or Ray or my mom or my uncle or, God forbid, Poe.

  It’s in someone I don’t know and can’t find but who’s out there.

  I jus
t have to bide my time.

  But I haven’t forgotten you, Jocelyn.

  I’ll never forget.

  The sound downstairs doesn’t awaken me because I’m not asleep.

  It’s the middle of night, and I’m thinking of Jocelyn. Mom got home before I went to bed, and she was in a decent enough mood. Everything seemed normal. She asked me if I’d finished my homework and asked about school and seemed genuinely interested to see if anything out of the ordinary was happening at Harrington High. Of course I said little, but we still managed to have a halfway normal conversation.

  So the screams coming from downstairs really freak me out.

  I jerk out of bed and topple over Midnight as I open my door and practically tumble down the stairs.

  I don’t need to ask who these screams are coming from.

  Tonight they’re louder than usual.

  I go to Mom’s bedroom and shout her name and turn on the light.

  She’s in the corner on her knees, clawing at the wall. Clawing like she’s trying to get out, clawing like she’s trying to get something off of her.

  “Mom, Mom, come on, Mom, it’s me, Mom!”

  She waves her hands around her head as if she’s fighting off mosquitoes. Her hair is messy, and she’s wearing a long T-shirt. Her white arms and legs look skinnier than I remember.

  “Mom,” I keep saying.

  Finally the glazed, possessed eyes blink a few times and come back to reality. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s been running.

  “You’re just dreaming, Mom.”

  She puts a shaking hand over her eyes and nose as if she wants to hide underneath it. The bed next to her is a mess of wadded-up sheets and blankets.

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “No,” she says.

  “You’re awake now.”

  “He comes to me in my sleep.”

  “What?”

  She looks around the room as if someone might still be there. I can feel the cold bumps crackling over my skin. I realize how cold I am, standing there in only boxer shorts.

  “He comes into my room in the middle of the night. He crawls into my bed.”

  I don’t want to hear this.