Hurt: A Novel (Solitary Tales Series)

by Thrasher, Travis

  Stop that craziness.

  I try and focus.

  “Mr. Staunch.”

  “Why? ’Cause of Gus?”

  “No,” I say. “Gus is just a dumb bully. I’d probably be like him if I had that man for a father.”

  “But why then?”

  “It has to do with my family. My mom’s side of the family. Who we’re related to.”

  I look at her and want to tell her more, but I just can’t. I don’t want to freak her out.

  I don’t want her to be afraid of me.

  She asks a few more questions, but I’m vague with my answers.

  “Listen, Kelsey, you have to just trust me. I can’t say more. Not because I don’t want to. I do. I’d tell you anything. I really would. It’s just—I don’t want you involved. I don’t want you in the middle. Of anything.”

  “Okay.”

  “That might be hard. Especially as the end of the school year comes.”

  Kelsey nods and just like that, she trusts me.

  Just like that, she doesn’t need anything more.

  If this was some other girl—most other girls—they would need more.

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  “The school year is almost done. Then—freedom.”

  I smile.

  I don’t tell her that I don’t believe that.

  That I don’t know what the word means anymore. I’m not a free man.

  I haven’t been free for some time.

  What I need to do is figure out how to get my freedom. And how to do that without Kelsey or my mom or anybody else getting hurt in the process.

  36. Nothing to Fear

  Maybe some teens would take advantage of an empty house in a different way from Kelsey and me. A couple into each other might end up doing something with those feelings. Something more than just watching another flick on the flat-screen television in a family room.

  These are my thoughts as we finish watching the movie, with Kelsey tucked in between my arms and legs as if I’m a gigantic beanbag. I can’t help but think them, just because … I can’t help it.

  But this is Kelsey, and I know she’s not that kind of a girl. It sounds like a cliché but I can’t say it any other way.

  And all of this proves to be a good thing, because her parents come home a lot earlier than Kelsey expects. Since the family room opens up to the kitchen, we see them walk in and greet us. Both of them are dressed up and look like they’re coming from some fancy adult function.

  “How are you doing, Chris?” Mr. Page asks.

  I stand and shake his hand. For a while we make small talk. We tell them what movie we saw, what pizza we ate, just typical chitchat with parents.

  “I’m not used to wearing a tie,” Mr. Page says, taking it off and folding it in his hands. “I’d hate to have to wear one of these every day.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I say.

  Before he leaves the room, I have a random thought that has occasionally popped into my head at weird times. I don’t want to ignore Kelsey, but I don’t think she’ll mind if I ask her father something.

  The first time I was here, he showed me a map of the original Solitary in his office.

  “Mr. Page, can I ask you a question?”

  For a second he looks very surprised, a bit too surprised. I quickly add that it’s about the history of Solitary. This makes his look calm down.

  I wasn’t going to ask you if I could marry Kelsey.

  “Do you know the history of Indian Bridge?”

  Mr. Page unbuttons the top two buttons on his dress shirt as he smiles. “Did you go up there recently?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “We used to go there when I was a kid. They say you can see the ghost of a dead Indian crossing the bridge at midnight. It’s silly, but I remember being totally freaked out. You ever go there, Kel?”

  “No way,” Kelsey says.

  “She’s like her mother,” Mr. Page says. “Hates anything to do with scary stories. So don’t ever take her to see a horror movie.”

  I laugh.

  Ha ha.

  That’s great. Thanks, Mr. Page.

  Little does your daughter know she’s in a horror story.

  “Why is the bridge supposed to be haunted?”

  “Everything is supposedly haunted around here,” Mr. Page says. “I think it’s part of living in the mountains and the woods. People like making up ways to creep each other out and have some fun. That bridge was the first one of its kind built years ago. It helped people get from Asheville to Greenville when there was only a tiny road going through the mountains. They say there were Indians who helped build it, and some of them died during the construction. They say the men building the bridge just tossed the dead bodies of the Indians off the bridge.”

  “Dad!”

  “What?”

  Mr. Page looks at Kelsey with an innocent What did I do? look.

  “I’m going to have nightmares now.”

  Join the club, Kelsey.

  “Sorry. Just telling Chris what they say. I’m sure it’s not true.”

  “Did you ever see anything?” Kelsey asks.

  “No. Except one time Bruce, an old buddy of mine, dressed up as an Indian and scared the lights out of two girls we brought up there. One of those happened to be your mom.”

  “I remember that story,” Kelsey says.

  I’ve got some more stories for you. How about faceless shadowy men who live underneath the bridge and hide out, waiting …

  “It’s actually a really beautiful bridge in the daylight. It’s amazing that they built it years ago and that it’s now in the middle of the woods. We should go there sometime.”

  “Uh, no thanks,” Kelsey says.

  She’s beginning to look a bit impatient at this conversation. Either because it’s talking about something scary or because it’s with her father.

  Mr. Page seems to get the message and tells us good night. We’re left alone again, but not really.

  It’s totally different now.

  Well, not completely different.

  Kelsey and I are on the couch with the television on, but we’re just watching each other. A blanket covers us, and I have her wrapped up in one arm. It’s amazing because she’s so delicate but also surprisingly tall when she’s standing next to me.

  “They’re not coming in here,” she says.

  I nod, but I’m not convinced.

  But Kelsey—Little Ms. Shy Kelsey—kisses me.

  And once again I’m lost.

  Once again I’m free.

  I don’t want to leave here. I don’t want this feeling I have to end.

  Before I go, I tell her what I’m feeling.

  I tell her what I’m afraid of.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” I say.

  She doesn’t understand what that means.

  How could she?

  She doesn’t know the truth about Jocelyn or Lily.

  You’re being stupid, Chris.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” she says.

  I want to say more, but she kisses me again and shuts me up.

  I could really grow used to that.

  It’s a pretty awesome thing.

  37. The Terrible Beauty of Being a Teen

  It’s something like this:

  “How’s it going?”

  “Okay.”

  “How’s Mom?”

  “Fine.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how’s school?”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you in track?”

  “Just started.”

  “
What about driver’s ed?”

  “Been going for three weeks. A few more to go.”

  “That’s not bad.”

  “No.”

  “Staying out of trouble?”

  “No way.”

  “Tell Mom to give me a call. When she can. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Take care, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Chris? Be on the lookout for something I’m sending in the mail. Just a little something. Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I hang up the phone and then wipe tears off my cheeks. Not that anybody’s going to see me crying. I don’t even feel bad for crying. It just sorta happened the moment I started lying to Dad.

  But I have no choice.

  In something like sixteen months, the man who I couldn’t stand is now the very person I wish would come and rescue me. But when I was in Chicago, look what happened. Uncle Robert had to come find me and tell me to come back or else. Or else something would happen to Mom.

  I can’t mess up this time.

  So once again I just act like a typical teenager with little to say and little to feel. Dad hasn’t been around me much my whole life so he doesn’t know me. Kelsey knows me better than he does. Maybe even someone like Pastor Marsh knows me better.

  So as I lied on the phone and deliberately made it a short and simple conversation, my mind and heart and soul all screamed to be heard.

  To be found. To be taken away.

  Dad has no clue.

  Just because a kid doesn’t say much doesn’t mean there’s not much going on inside.

  That’s the awful truth about being a seventeen-year-old boy.

  One more year and I become a man, right?

  But it happened a long time ago.

  I’m just awfully good at faking the whole not-much-going-on thing.

  There’s too much going on, Dad. Can’t you read my mind?

  I force myself to stop crying, not because I’m a seventeen-year-old man. But because it’s not going to get me anywhere.

  I need to devise a plan. Starting now.

  February is almost here, and that means that May 28 will be here soon.

  I need to figure out what to do.

  And who can help.

  38. Mounds

  It’s a Monday afternoon, and I’m sitting on a bench on the sidewalk of the main strip of Solitary. A strip about as big as those nasal strips that professional athletes wear over their noses during games. There’s really not any kind of strip, but at least I’ll know when the guy I’m supposed to meet shows up.

  So as for grand plans … well, this isn’t part of it. I don’t think this is part of any kind of plan, to be honest.

  It’s just completely random. But it’s a job. A job that I discovered on the busy bulletin board just inside Harrington High. I took the little note written in regular handwriting.

  I glance at it again now.

  Interested in part-time work? Weird hours, great pay. Call Mounds.

  I still have the paper in case Mounds doesn’t show up. Or in case he gets lost on the way to Solitary.

  This job wasn’t given to my mom like the job with Iris was. Iris wanted me to work with her. I was always meant to work with her.

  Mounds? Probably not.

  Probably the last thing I should be doing is hanging out with Mounds.

  The ad sounded like a joke, but I took the notice and called the number over the weekend.

  “I’m right here,” a laid-back, low voice answered.

  “Yeah, I’m calling about a job.”

  “Really?”

  I waited.

  “Yeah. At the high school. Said ‘interested in part-time work. Weird hours, great pay.’ Said to call Mounds.”

  “Yeah, I’m Mounds.”

  “Well, then—I’m interested in the job.”

  “Okay.”

  More silence.

  “So what exactly is the job?”

  “You ever hear of a ghost hunter?”

  “Is this for real?” I asked.

  First the strange ad and the stranger name. Now this.

  “Ghosts are for real, sure.”

  The guy talking doesn’t have a Southern accent. He’s got the whole laid-back thing down, but he sounds more like he’s from the West Coast.

  “So the job is for ghost hunting?”

  “Nah, that’s what I do,” he said.

  “Then what’s the job?”

  “Pays great, man.”

  “Doing what?”

  It was like talking to a five-year-old.

  “Helping.”

  That was all he said.

  “Helping with what?” I eventually asked.

  “Ghost hunting.”

  I didn’t think this was for real, but I was kind of amused. Which lately is a rare thing. Mounds eventually told me to meet him in downtown Solitary at 5:00 p.m.

  It’s 5:20 when a dirty and rusted-out minivan pulls up and uses two parking spaces, not that anybody will really care. I can’t see the guy driving but figure if it’s Mounds, he’ll get out.

  I wait about five minutes and then I go up to his door. He rolls down the window.

  “You Richard?”

  The guy has wild hair and an even wilder beard.

  Of course he does.

  I shake my head. “Are you Mounds?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “I’m Chris. The guy who called you about the job.”

  “Oh, yeah. Chris. Rich. Yeah, sure. Come on. What you waiting for?”

  How about you?

  “Are we …?”

  “Hunting,” Mounds says, raising his eyebrows as high as he can get them. “For ghosts.”

  “So I’m hired?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Oh.”

  “What? You want a job interview? Want me to check references?”

  I smell Italian food coming from inside the minivan.

  “Come on. The night is calling us.”

  I guess there are worse things I could be doing than getting into a falling-apart minivan with a ghost hunter named Mounds.

  Really? Like what?

  This is the moment that I could just bolt and he probably wouldn’t care.

  He might not even notice.

  “Dude, look,” Mounds says. “I’m not gonna kidnap you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Yeah, that’s pretty much exactly what I’m worried about.

  “I mean, if I was going to, don’t you think I’d be a little more cleaned up? The whole van, too. Come on. That’s like just screaming Silence of the Lambs, right? Maybe subtlety isn’t my thing. But people like me aren’t the ones you’re supposed to be afraid of. It’s those guys looking like ordinary accountants who just sorta fit in and meanwhile they’re chewing on someone’s foot late at night.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or be completely grossed out.

  He does have a good point.

  Staunch and Marsh hired Lily to get to me.

  “Man, I don’t have all night.”

  I sigh and shake off my fears. If I keep thinking like this, I’m never going to open another door my entire freaking life. I climb inside.

  “So, Rick,” he says as he turns up the stereo.

  “Chris.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Led Zeppelin jams in the minivan. It definitely smells like an Italian restaurant in here. I look in the back and see what appears to be a red plastic briefcase sitting on the seat.

  “Oh, yeah, the smell,” Mounds says. “I deliver pizza when things are slow.�
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  Taking one look at the very large figure of Mounds, I get the impression that he also tends to sample some of the pizza. Maybe lots of the pizza.

  Suddenly the “great pay” seems a bit of an exaggeration.

  But Mounds quickly answers what I’m thinking. At least one question I’m thinking.

  “I do it so I can meet people. Scope out homes. I’ve been doing this long enough to just know. You just get that vibe from people. You know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You do? You really know?”

  I shake my head. I was just trying to be polite.

  “Some people really do know, you know?”

  He starts driving out of Solitary, and I ask where he’s going.

  “Want some work?”

  “It might be good to talk about hours. Pay.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What, are you an accounting major or something?”

  “I’m in high school.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  There’s a particularly loud and long guitar jam, and he cranks it up as if I’m not even here.

  He’s a big guy. His beard and hair make him look like a hippie. He doesn’t look like a bum or anything. He’s actually wearing long shorts and flip-flops and an oversized tropical shirt as if we’re in Miami or something.

  He turns down the stereo so we can talk.

  “The hours I can’t tell you. They’ll always be different. I’ll give you a hundred bucks every time we head out. Another hundred if we find something.”

  “How do I know what we’re looking for?”

  “That’s what I do. You just hang with me. Carry equipment. Bring me food and water. That sort of thing.” He looks at me, then laughs. “Come on, man. I’m just kidding about the food and water. Unless I need it, of course.”

  I stare ahead at the winding road. This is the way to Kelsey’s house.

  How about we stop by and maybe grab something to eat while we’re there?

  “Where are we heading?”

  Mounds looks at me, and for a second I picture a California Santa Claus.

  “Into the belly of the beast, man.”

  He squints his eyes and looks at me. And as he does, the minivan drives off the road and heads toward the ditch next to the woods.