The Kissing Booth Girl and Other Stories

by A. C. Wise

  “I don’t understand.”

  Itzak shook his head, and then smiled a humorless smile. “Then consider yourself lucky.”

  Simon started at him, uncomprehending, but his partner said no more.

  Something tugged at the edges of Simon’s consciousness, pulling him up from dreams where wheels with bright sharp teeth spun ceaselessly and crushed faceless people beneath them. Shadows transformed the scrap metal and junk into blurred and unfamiliar shapes of darkness. The scrying mirrors and crystals were blind eyes, watching him.

  He sat up, looking for the thing that had woken him. A fire-shaded point of light burned in the darkness. An intake of breath, and the light illuminated a face. Smoke curled away from Itzak’s cigarette, and Simon moved towards him.

  Itzak’s lips moved, but Simon could hear no sound. The other seemed unaware, or uncaring, of Simon’s presence. Now that he was right beside him, Simon could hear the murmured words and he jumped. Itzak seemed to address him, but without once glancing his way.

  “I could do it. I could make the thing work. Kaltenbrunner knows it, and he knows that I know. He knows I’ll be tempted to try, just to show it can be done.”

  “What?”

  Simon strained forward. Itzak’s head snapped up, startling him. The other’s eyes burned as bright as the cigarette in his hand. After a moment, Itzak smiled, showing the shadows and the strain.

  “We’re very alike, you and I.”

  His voice was soft again, and he took another deep breath. Smoke curled around them.

  “We’re fascinated not only by the working of things, but by the possibility of them. If we suspect something can be done, we want to try. We push ourselves just a little bit farther each time, to see if it really will work. Given space and means, we will push to the exclusion of all else.”

  “What are you talking about, Itzak?”

  Simon’s voice trembled. He was frightened, but he was no longer sure whether it was for, or of, the man in front of him. Tonight, of all nights, Itzak seemed entirely other, alien and strange. Itzak’s features were pale, almost translucent, and that same wildness, that same danger Simon had seen the first time they had met, shone brightly in his eyes.

  “I have an idea.” Itzak’s voice was barely audible, and something in it made Simon want to shiver. “Do you trust me?”

  Itzak’s gaze found Simon in the dark and pinned him. Simon forced himself to look at the myriad things he saw in Itzak’s eyes—hurt, fear, and yes, passion too. But it was all part of what made Itzak what he was, and Simon found himself nodding.

  “Good, because I can’t do this alone.”

  The night was cloudless and moonlight spilled through the glass to touch Simon as he crouched over Itzak on the floor. Above them, the golem loomed, wrapped in shadow and watching over them with unseeing eyes. Simon held a knife, but his hand shook so hard he couldn’t keep it still.

  “I can’t do this.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

  Itzak moved his head to either side, checking the bonds on his wrists, and then turned back to face Simon.

  “Yes, you can. You have to.”

  The moonlight showed Itzak’s skin, and it was terribly white. His chest was bared, showing the scars running over his ribcage and legs and arms, disappearing around to his back, which was pressed against the cold floor.

  “What if it doesn’t work?”

  “It will!”

  Itzak’s voice was fierce, and it startled Simon so he almost dropped the blade. Itzak’s eyes pinned him, burning and frightened all at once. Simon’s heart beat in his throat; he swallowed hard around the lump it made. Of the two of them, he had no right to be afraid.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon murmured.

  Itzak nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s okay. You have to hurry though. Just do it, quickly. Don’t even think about it.”

  Something like a grin twisted Itzak’s lips, and Simon shook his head, feeling tears coming to his eyes. “I never have.” He took a deep steadying breath, and plunged the knife in.

  There was more blood than Simon could have imagined. Despite what he knew intellectually, it still surprised him—the red spilling over his hands and leaving them slick.

  Simon gagged, nearly sick as he reached into the cavity, lifting Itzak’s heart in his hands. He was sharply aware of his own heart, its beat twin to the one he held. Through it all Itzak’s eyes remained on him, bright and wild, and the other continued to breathe in shallow panting breaths. Simon could almost see the net of will Itzak used to hold himself together.

  Simon felt a moment of panic, freezing him. He held Itzak’s heart in his hands, and impossibly, it still beat. He knew what he was meant to do, but he couldn’t get his limbs to obey him. Mice and horses were one thing, but a man, his friend…

  Simon shook himself. He had promised. And if he didn’t act, Itzak’s life would be wasted for nothing. Trembling, he moved to the golem and opened the plate covering its chest. Everything was laid out as he and Itzak had planned and built it, using the parts intended for the emperor’s Grand Bomb. It gleamed coldly in the light. Simon took a deep breath and forced doubt away. He let his hands take over, and did what Itzak had advised—he didn’t even think about it.

  As though from a great distance Simon watched his hands moving in a red-white blur. Metal was joined to muscle as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Moonlight caught the characters on the golem’s forehead, and they winked back at Simon. Beneath them, the creature’s face was lifeless and still.

  He stepped back. His hands were still red, but they were no longer shaking. A strange calm filled him as he regarded the golem. He took one last steadying breath then raised his blood-stained hand and brushed it gently across the golem’s brow.

  Itzak gasped behind him. Simon turned in time to see his friend’s body go rigid, straining terribly upwards as if he was trying to pull free of his bonds. A hole gaped where his chest had been, and crimson ribbons ran over the white of Itzak’s skin. Then, as though a string had been cut, Itzak slumped back and was still.

  The golem opened its eyes.

  They were not Itzak’s eyes. They were strange things of mirror and glass, and though blind, they saw. The golem trembled, and then took a lurching step forward. There was a scream of tortured metal—a scream that might also have been a cry of pain.

  Simon felt a pang of fear, mixed with guilt. Now the wildness of Itzak’s shape matched the wildness Simon had seen so often in his eyes; there was nothing left to hold the pain and darkness at bay. And the shape Itzak wore now had been built for only one thing. But it had been Itzak’s choice. It was the only way.

  He stood back as the golem ripped open the workroom door.

  For a long time, Simon merely cowered in the shadows, listening. The first cry cut through him like a knife; he felt it in his very bones. He was sure he would never move again. They would find him one day—bones amongst the twisted metal and gears. A terrible crashing sound followed the first cry, then a dull roar.

  The sound unfroze him. Simon jumped up, running without thinking. He pelted through the corridors, pushing past shouting officers. Panic was a tangible thing, thickly filling the air. The golem tore the Staatspolizei headquarters apart piece by piece. Heat rushed towards Simon as something caught flame.

  A door leading off to the side of the corridor opened, and Simon stopped. Flames framed a man, making him a shape of blackness, torn from the light. Simon stared and the man turned slightly, just enough so that the light was no longer behind him, falling on his face instead.

  Firelight played in the deep lines of Kaltenbrunner’s scars. His eyes shone. Simon had expected rage, but there was none. The hunger and the amusement were gone as well. What Simon saw in that gaze was far more terrible still. All around them, Staatspolizei officers dragged up from their sleep screamed and died and burned as Kaltenbrunner’s eyes locked on Simon’s.

  In this moment, Herr Tinker, you and I are not so
different after all.

  Even though he didn’t speak the words aloud, Simon heard them crystal clear. The faintest of smiles touched the mask of Kaltenbrunner’s face—a smile that was not a smile at all. Then, as others ran from the chaos and the flame, Kaltenbrunner turned back to the burning room and closed the door.

  No guard stood at the door leading into the courtyard, and none by the gate, but the lock was still in place. Simon tore his shirt off and climbed. At the top of the fence, he wrapped the torn fabric around the razor wire, leaving it behind as he dropped to the other side.

  Breath burned in his lungs, and his legs ached as he pounded through the narrow streets. Someone shouted, and it took Simon a moment to realize it was him. He was laughing too, and there were tears in his eyes. Smoke, heavy with ash, drifted down from the direction he had come.

  “Out! Out! Everybody out! We have to leave, now.”

  He banged on doors, on windows and walls, any surface he could get his hands on. A wild, uncontrolled panic boiled through him as he moved through the streets. Doors behind him opened; frightened faces peered out. He could see it in their eyes, like Annah, they didn’t trust him. He didn’t blame them.

  But they noticed the fire up on the hill, and their distrust was immediately forgotten.

  “Leave your things. Take a little food, only what you can easily carry. Come on!”

  Simon rushed forward; exhilaration, shot through with panic, carried him. His eyes lit on a woman standing in a doorway, watching him. Annah’s eyes were frightened, but her expression was hard. She held her arms crossed over her chest, watching him with suspicion.

  “Annah!”

  Simon rushed forward and caught her hands. This time she did not pull away. She glanced past him to the flames, and they reflected in her eyes.

  “Hurry, we have to leave, now.”

  He was fully aware of the metallic sound that had been on the edge of his hearing for some time now. It was coming closer. Annah darted another glance over his shoulder. Her eyes widened, and she nodded silently. All around them bodies pressed close, wild in their panic. People ran for the walls.

  “We have to go.” Simon gripped Annah’s hands, and at last he felt her fingers soften beneath his.

  Annah turned and called into the room behind her. Her uncle and two small children emerged, looking fragile and frightened. Simon lifted one of the children into his arms, glancing back just long enough to see that Annah followed him.

  Simon’s heart pounded in his throat as he ran. People scrambled up the walls, Staatspolizei officers among them. Those too weak to climb were being left behind, stepped on in the panic to escape. Someone above him, whose face he couldn’t see, reached down thin arms and Simon handed the child up into them. Then he too began to climb.

  At the top of the wall he paused. One leg hung down inside the ghetto and the other out. The warehouse burned with angry red flames that clawed at the black sky. What moon there had been was now obscured by smoke. Backlit against the flames on the hill, small figures ran in a chaos of fear. Among them, one large figure, a blot of shadow against the night, swung massive arms. Even from this distance, Simon heard the golem’s tortured metallic scream. He couldn’t help thinking of the heart beating within that metal chest.

  “What is that thing?” Annah had climbed up on the wall beside him.

  Simon turned. Annah’s eyes met his. A hot wind full of ash lifted the hair around her face. Once more he saw the thinness, the bruises, and the unmoving shadows. Simon turned back to look at the golem one last time.

  “A friend.”

  Interview #1—November 14, 2011

  “He called it a period of grace. Everyone gets one. It’s a transition period. A way to ease the pain.”

  The camera catches her mid-conversation, as if she would have been speaking regardless of whether anyone was watching. She might not even know the camera is there. Except you know she does.

  The shot angles over her left shoulder, showing an over-full ashtray, but not her face. It shows hands—nails ragged and bitten—one finger tap-tapping ash, not nervous, but compulsive nonetheless. The camera shows glossy black hair, cut so straight it looks like a wig, and a shoulder, bare but for the narrow strap of a white tank top.

  She keeps talking, the camera rolls on. You watch.

  “Nothing is forever, that’s what he always said. The world is in a constant state of flux—no sharp breaks. Everything liminal, in-between. That’s the way he lived his life. If he left, he could come back. And he always did.”

  She breathes out, a long sound filled with smoke. The camera flattens the breath, and stills everything else in the room. Tap-tap, more ash falls against thick glass, a drift building and threatening to overflow.

  “That’s what the period of grace was for—forgiveness. Our whole lives were one long goodbye. He always said he was going away for good, but he never did. He always came back. I think he was afraid to leave.”

  One hand turns the ashtray, glass scraping over-loud against the wood.

  “Sometimes, when he was in one of his moods, he’d yell and accuse me of drawing him back against his will. After, he would cry and thank me. I think he needed me to save him. He wasn’t always in his right mind; he needed me to make it okay.

  “Nothing has changed.”

  She’s alone in the room. She insisted, wouldn’t talk if anyone else was there. But she’d let you watch. Through a two-way mirror, through a camera, speaking through the intercom if you needed to ask her a question—as long as a barrier existed between you, she would talk.

  The microphone catches every nuance of her exhaled breath, every movement of her fingers tapping ash, her body, shifting against the chair. The resulting recording is good, but it doesn’t quite catch the voice speaking off screen. The sound comes through, static-shot, low. It might be your voice, you can’t tell. It sounds strange, and you don’t remember what you asked her or when. The microphone is good, but not that good; it doesn’t catch the question, only her answer.

  “No, it didn’t work that way. He wasn’t always in control. It wasn’t his fault.”

  A pause, and if sound fills the silence, the camera doesn’t catch that either.

  “I forgave him.”

  On the screen, the room is black and white. Ghost-gray. Pearl. Charcoal. The space is crowded with shadows. If you stare hard enough, long enough—and you always do—they pull away from the edges of the screen and close in. They shrink the world, narrowing it to a tunnel you could reach through to brush a hand against her skin. Tap-tap—the cigarette against a beveled edge of glass. The ashtray is always full; her cigarette never burns down.

  “He made me watch,” she says.

  The words stand alone, unprompted, and bring no response from the static-choked intercom.

  Against the silence, your heart pounds. It’s not standard procedure to ignore a witness’ statement, especially when they volunteer information.

  But you did. You do.

  You lean forward. A shadow passes across her shoulder—a hand just out of view, about to touch, but never lowered into the frame. She rubs that shoulder. Coincidence? The strap of the tank top shifts a fraction. Nudged by her fingertips?

  The angle doesn’t show it, but you can imagine: if the camera shifted to the left, you’d see the hard press of her nipples against the fabric of her shirt, defiant. She wants you to know how little stands between you and her skin.

  You’ve watched the tape a dozen times, maybe more. You squirm every time. You know you should look away, but you don’t. You never do.

  The intercom crackles, the voice again—yours? The reaction is immediate, and it makes you jump every time.

  The woman turns and looks straight at the camera. She looks straight at you. Not you then, but you here and now. Her eyes are black-black, ink pooled on white flesh.

  “I didn’t kill him,” she says. “But he made me watch him die.”

  Video Evidence #1—Date Unknown
>
  “Watch the tape.”

  She stands at your right shoulder, close enough to touch, but careful not to. Close enough for you to feel the way her skin doesn’t brush yours; close enough that your flesh prickles, electric, but you can’t tell whether the hairs on her arm rise. She leaves the distance to imagination and possibility, never closing the gap. She wants you to know she’s in control.

  “Watch.”

  She points. You catch a hint of sour sweat and stale cigarettes, as if she hasn’t showered in days. The scent shouldn’t turn you on…

  You think about saying, “I don’t want to see this,” and you don’t say anything at all.

  The edge of her smile catches the corner of your eye. That smile, even if it’s imagined, binds you. It stitches your lips closed, keeps you silent and lets you hold your ground. It gives you permission; it makes whatever happens next okay.

  You watch.

  Together.

  The camera angles high over her left shoulder. She is alone in the room.

  Shadows gather at the edges of the screen, leaving spaces full of doubt. The image is grainy, the color somewhere between night-vision green and faded black and white. Light pools around her, either from the camera, or maybe from her skin—luminous and self-illuminating.

  Where the light ends, faint markings circle her, chalk on bare wood.

  She kneels on the boards, back to the camera’s lens, legs tucked beneath her, leaving just the tips of her toes peeking out beneath the curve of her ass. She’s wearing the same white tank top—fabric so thin you could see right through it if only she’d turn around. There’s nothing underneath. You’re sure.

  Your breath quickens, watching the screen. The edge of her smile snags at you. There and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. But you didn’t. She wants you to know.

  She’s wearing black silk panties. Her legs are bare.

  Her hands are tied behind her back.

  A blindfold covers her eyes.