by Emma Scott
“What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t speak,” she said.
I blinked. “He’s mute?”
She rolled her eyes. “I mean, he can speak. He just doesn’t much. Unless he’s on stage, acting…”
Her words trailed away, and I looked to where Isaac Pearce leaned against the wall outside the doors, braving the cold and smoking a cigarette in plain sight, not caring if a teacher caught him.
“He’s an actor? He looks…” My own words dwindled away, none of them sufficient. Hot. A bad boy. Manwhore. Chews girls up and spits them out. A different girl every night…
“Tough,” I finished.
“He has to be. His father beats the hell out of him.”
My gaze jumped back to Isaac, trying to see if the signs of the abuse were written all over him, or if his worst scars, like mine, were hidden on the inside.
“His father beats him?”
“That’s the word on the street. But no one’s seen his dad in town for a while, so the current rumor is that Isaac killed him and hid the body in their scrapyard.”
I scrunched my face at her. “What? Come on…”
Angie shrugged, her freckle-smattered nose wrinkling. “It’s a dumb rumor, but I couldn’t blame the guy. They live all the way on the edge of town, by themselves in that shitty trailer surrounded by a car graveyard.” She shivered.
Now my eyes sought signs of Isaac’s poverty and found it at once in his scuffed boots and faded jeans. Poor but proud. Not one thing about him begged pity.
“Okay, but he didn’t kill his dad,” I said.
Angie flapped her hands. “Charles Pearce will show up in town eventually. The rumors will rest for a few weeks then start up again. It’s been this way since Isaac’s mom died about ten years ago. He used to come to school all bruised up. Not so much these days. I mean, look at his build. He’s strong enough to fight back now. Why wouldn’t he?”
I had no answer to that. I didn’t want to think about how horrible it would be, not only to be hit by your own father, but to have to fight back. To defend yourself.
“Onstage, Isaac’s a whole different animal,” Angie said. “An ungodly, sexy beast. He plays all these emotional parts—screaming and crying onstage. Couple of years ago, the community theater did Angels in America, and he and another dude kissed. You’d think that would’ve been a death sentence but it wasn’t. He’s untouchable.”
Untouchable.
The word sang to me like a lullaby. Everything safe was in those four syllables. Everything I wanted to be but wasn’t.
Neither is Isaac, I thought. He’s not untouchable to his dad.
“You should come to the latest play tonight or tomorrow,” Angie said. “Watch Isaac act.”
“He’s good?”
She snorted. “Good? It’s a transformative experience. I’m not a big fan of plays myself, but watching Isaac Pearce onstage…” She gave me a sly look. “Bring a spare pair of panties is all I’m saying.”
“Maybe I will,” I said. “Go, I mean.”
“Let’s go tonight,” she said brightly. “It’s Oedipus Rex at the community theater. I know, I know, Greek tragedy is a snooze, right? But trust me, with Isaac in the lead…” Her shoulders gave a little shiver. “I’ve already seen it twice. The show closes tomorrow but I can squeeze one more in. For you.” She nudged my arm. “Aren’t I the best welcome wagon?”
“I don’t know, you’re my first.”
Angie fished a ballpoint pen out of her backpack, grabbed my hand, and wrote down her phone number on my palm. I flinched; her pen was inches from the concealed ink of my black X’s on my wrist.
“Tonight at eight,” she said. “Text me when you get the okay from your ‘rents. I’ll be waiting for you outside the theater.”
I blinked at the sudden social engagement thrust upon me. My Friday night plans typically involved reading, drinking tea or binge-watching Black Mirror on Netflix. A quiet night in the ice palace.
I heard myself saying, “Yeah, okay. I’ll text you.”
“Brill.” Angie beamed. “And come find me and my crew at lunch. You can avoid the usual New Kid Who Eats Alone bullshit.”
“Thanks.”
“Welcome wagon extraordinaire, darling.”
The bell rang. She blew me a kiss and trotted off to class. I moved more slowly, my gaze lingering on Isaac over the open door of my locker. He looked up.
For a second, through the steamed-up glass doors, his eyes met mine. I was struck all over again by the dangerous beauty of this guy. He was a sleek dagger. He’d cut you with a look if you didn’t know how to handle him.
And I’d stolen his seat in English class.
Maybe let’s not do that again…
Isaac tilted his chin at me, then ground his cigarette out and sauntered back into the building. He strode past me, smelling of smoke and the cold bite of winter, a hint of peppermint. He spoke to no one and no one spoke to him. But, like me, the students all stared. Everyone stared. Mesmerized.
I’d never learned to drive in New York City, there was simply no need. I didn’t even have a learner’s permit. So, I took the school bus home from George Mason. It lumbered and lurched toward the east side of Harmony, where the road started winding through small foothills. The houses were immense on this side of town, with wide, sprawling yards. More than one property boasted horse paddocks and barns. I’d never imagined having so much space around a house. Backyards, front yards, side yards. And trees everywhere. They were skeletal with winter, but it was easy to imagine them green and full in summer, or bursting orange and red in autumn. Easy and enjoyable. I found myself looking forward to that.
My mother wasn’t as enthusiastic.
“I hope our homeowners’ insurance covers Indian raids,” she’d said to Dad when we first arrived. “And locust swarms.”
He’d pretended she was joking, though I knew Mom was deadly serious. Country life wasn’t going to suit her. She’d been a Connecticut socialite, a Wellesley girl and a fixture on the Upper West Side. I gave her six months in Harmony before she gave my dad an ultimatum: go back to New York or find a new place in Divorceville.
As the school bus let me off on my new street that first day, I inhaled the crisp air deep into my lungs. This was an entirely different kind of cold than New York. A cleaner cold. Probably just my imagination, but I felt like I could breathe a little easier.
Our old townhouse had been spacious by Manhattan standards, but our new home was huge. No barn or paddock for Regina Holloway—she insisted we buy something entirely remodeled. Like Winona Ryder’s stepmother in Beetlejuice, she wanted to tear the country charm out of a house and replace it with cold elegance. I would’ve loved an old country house with little flowers on the yellowing wallpaper and warm wood banisters on the stairs. The more polar opposite to our city home the better. No subconscious reminders or throwbacks to the illicit party I’d thrown and what had happened in my bedroom that night.
I unlocked the front door and stepped into the warmth. We had a grand entryway with a chandelier that belonged in a ballroom. I crossed the blond-gray hardwood floors, and I kicked off my snowy boots before heading through the maze of couches and chairs and rolled up area rugs—all still wrapped in plastic.
The house was quiet and empty. Our furniture from New York wasn’t enough to fill this hulking space, and Mom was in Indianapolis buying more. Dad was at work, naturally, slaving away for Mr. Wilkinson to keep up with Mom’s spending.
The kitchen was mostly unpacked. I made some strawberry tea and took it up to my room. My new bed was supposed to be delivered today. It was the only purchase I’d demanded for the move. I argued we had the space now and Dad, pleased as hell I wasn’t bitching about Indiana, was more than happy to oblige.
I peeked my head into my room, then exhaled.
Yes.
My old bed with its X-marked mattress was gone. Consigned to the scrap heap or recycling. In its place was a queen-sized cano
py bed with gauzy curtains.
I’m going to sleep in this bed, I vowed. Like a normal girl.
I set my tea on the table next to it and lay down on the plastic-wrapped mattress. I folded my arms over my stomach and closed my eyes.
“Untouchable,” I whispered.
After countless nights of shitty sleep, it reached up quickly with clawed hands and took me under. Down into black darkness. Muffled, pulsing music through the walls and floor. A warm, beer-coated, peanut-smelling mouth on mine. Squeezing hands on my throat. And that weight. Xavier’s crushing, smothering, destructive weight…
I bolted upright, a scream stuck in my chest, trapped between my tight, gasping lungs. My eyes blinked until my new room in my new house came into focus. The afternoon light was gone. The clock radio read 6:18 p.m. I sucked in deep breaths, wiped the tears from my cheeks and slid from the covers onto the floor.
No bed was safe anymore.
I sat, legs splayed out like a doll thinking that old song, “Living Dead Girl.” I thought about bundling into my bedspread, cocooning myself in the comforter and spending the rest of the night there, waiting for morning light. Then I remembered Angie’s invitation to Isaac’s show.
With a nightmare still clinging to me, the idea of dragging myself out of the house to socialize, felt impossible. But maybe seeing a play was like reading—immersive and escapist. I could lose myself in ancient Greek times and get some goddamn distance from my own pathetic tragedy.
I wrestled my arm out from under the blanket and stared at the phone number on my palm.
Was I really going to the play? Why?
To make a new friend in Angie.
To see this so-called acting prodigy, Isaac Pearce.
To get out of the house.
To be normal.
I pulled my sleeve down and compared the blue ink of Angie’s loopy print to the ugly black X’s I’d scrawled below.
I grabbed my phone and shot Angie a text.
This is Willow. I’m in. See you at 7:45?
The reply was almost instant. Make it 7 and we can grab burgers and shakes at The Scoop. You have a ride?
I realized I didn’t, and that Uber drivers or cabs probably weren’t as plentiful in Harmony as they had been in New York.
No, pick me up?
Yes, Your Majesty. <3
I gave her my address then texted my parents.
Going to eat with friends then to the play at the theater. Be home 11-ish.
My mother wanted to know whom I was going with—she’d already formed the opinion that Harmony was entirely populated with rubes and hicks. Dad insisted on an eleven o’clock curfew and ‘not a minute later.’
I ignored both of their texts as I got ready. It was none of Mom’s business and I hadn’t been asking Dad’s permission.
Willow
Angie honked from the driveway at ten to seven. I came out, bundled in my white winter coat and pink knit hat. Angie was craning her head out of the driver’s window of her green Toyota Camry to stare at my house.
She let out a wolf whistle as I climbed into her car. “Chez Holloway ees verra nice-ah,” she said in a terrible French accent and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Your dad’s in oil?”
“Good guess,” I said. “He’s a VP at Wexx.”
“Oh shit, yeah, we got those gas stations all over. Even Isaac’s deadbeat dad runs a station at the edge of his scrapyard. So what’s out here for you guys?”
I shrugged. “His boss told him to head up the Midwest operations. So, he did.”
“You sound so okay with it.” Angie drove carefully but not timidly along the winding, snow-drifted Emerson Road, which connected my neighborhood with downtown. Snow drifts piled on either side. “I’d be flipping out if I had to move senior year.”
“Not like I had a choice. Have you lived here your whole life?”
“Born and bred,” Angie said. “But I’m not staying. I’m applying to Stanford, UCLA, Berkeley—basically any school in California that will take me. I want sunshine and beaches, you know?” She pursed her lips at my silence. “What about you? Where are you applying to?”
“Nowhere,” I said.
Angie slowed for a stop sign. “For real? You’re not going to college?”
“No.” I shifted in the seat. “I mean, I haven’t applied anywhere yet. But I will. Soon.”
“Girl, you gotta get on that. Clock’s-a-ticking.”
“I know,” I said, gritting my teeth.
That was the bitch about life: it kept going even if you desperately needed it to slow down and wait a minute while you tried to piece yourself back together.
“You’re going to be a Yale gal, right? Or Brown?” Angie said as we came to the bottom of the bend to see the lights of downtown Harmony straight ahead. “I picture somewhere posh and New England-y.”
“Maybe.”
“Hey, you okay?” Angie gave me a sideways glance. “I realize I don’t know you very well—hashtag understatement—but you seem a little… I-D-K, down. Dimmer than earlier today.”
“Oh, I took a nap and it left me kind of drowsy,” I said. “And did you just say I-D-K?”
“I’m a child of the technological age.”
“Is that what you want to do for a living?” I asked, mostly to keep the attention off myself, but curious too. “Something in tech?”
“Indeed,” Angie said. “Robotics is my thing. I want to build prosthetic limbs for amputees. My dream is to be on a team that creates limbs like Luke Skywalker’s hand, you know? Realistic on the outside, Terminator on the inside.”
“You watch a lot of movies, don’t you?”
“Geek: one hundred percent, certified fresh.”
I smiled a little, but it faded just as quickly as I thought about Angie and her dreams. She was noble and kind, with ambitions of Stanford and doing some good in the world. I yearned to have that same spark. Some fire that fueled me toward a future with a career and goals and purpose. Some goal beyond making it through one more sleepless night.
You’re out of the house now, said a voice like Grandma’s. Doing your best. That’s something.
I took some comfort in that and was rewarded with the picture-postcard sight of downtown Harmony. Garlands of Christmas lights were still strung along the Victorian-era buildings, their large facades fronting more than one shop. We passed a laundromat, the five-and-dime, Daisy’s Coffeehouse and a beauty parlor. The neon sign of Bill’s Hardware blared red beside the marquee of a one-screen movie theater. Snow had been shoveled into neat piles and a few people strolled along the sidewalks.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured.
“Yeah?” Angie craned over her dash as we waited for the town’s one and only light to change. “Yeah, I guess it is. Have you seen much of Harmony? I know it’s buried under snow but we’ve got some cool stuff here for being a speck on the map.”
“Like?”
“There’s a cool hedge maze just north of us.”
“A hedge maze?”
“It’s not tall or complicated enough to lose a tourist in, but at the center is a cozy little shack with a windmill. Purely decorative.”
Or romantic, whispered a thought.
“West of town, there’s a really cool cemetery that dates back to the Civil War. And we have an outdoor amphitheater where town events and festivals are held. If you need outlet stores or fast food, Braxton is ten minutes north. And if you need a real city, Indy’s twenty minutes beyond Braxton.”
She pulled her car to the curb, alongside a building with a sign reading The Scoop.
“Here’s your typical, John-Hughes-style, high school hangout,” Angie said, shutting off the engine. “Be warned: it’s a burgers, fries and ice cream place. In case you’re a salad-and-sprouts kind of gal. I am not, if that wasn’t readily apparent.” She slapped her rounded hip with a laugh.
I followed her inside the restaurant. It was bustling with what looked like George Mason students, plus a few families
with small children.
“Ah yes, I see the cliques—such as they are—have taken up their usual posts.” With her chin, Angie indicated various groups clustered around tables or crammed into booths.
“There’s my tribe,” Angie said. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited them.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said, scrambling to recall the names of people Angie had introduced me to at lunch this afternoon. Her boyfriend, Nash Argawal—a sweet-faced guy of Indian descent. Caroline West, a petite brunette. And Jocelyn James, the towering blonde, captain of the basketball team.
“If I had to Mean Girls-classify us, we are the Greatest People You Will Ever Meet,” Angie said. “The quirky, diverse science geeks and persons of undeclared sexuality.” She leaned into me as we neared the booth. “We’re all straight on paper, but Caroline once kissed Jocelyn at a party and in the immortal words of Ms. Perry, they both liked it.”
I’d already classified Angie’s crew as effortlessly likeable and Nice with a capital N. The kind of people it’d be really damn easy to get close to. The kind whom if you told certain ugly secrets, they wouldn’t brand you a slut or ask you why on earth you sent a topless photo to an older guy. Or why you let that same guy into your bedroom. They’d even be horrified to find out you didn’t remember allowing him in, in the first place.
“Hey all, you remember Willow,” Angie said as she slid into the booth next to Nash. Caroline scooted closer to Jocelyn to make room for me. “I’m claiming her as ours before the cheerleaders grab her.” She looked at me uncertainly. “Unless you want to be a cheerleader?”
She nodded at a table where a bunch of pretty girls with long hair and sparkling lip gloss talked at each other over their phones. Guys in letterman jackets sat at the next table, their eyes on the game blaring from a TV in the corner.
“No, I’m not a cheerleader,” I said.
Not anymore.
In my old life, I’d not only been a cheerleader, but co-chair of the Junior Prom Committee, Class Treasurer and a member of the debate team. A whirlwind roster of activities that now all seemed like faded memories belonging to someone else.
