Need

by Carrie Jones

  “He’s pointing at me,” Devyn says, almost curling up into himself. Fear changes his voice into something frozen and brittle. Issie grabs at him. “He’s pointing at me, Is. Oh God . . .”

  “No. He’s pointing at me,” I say, muscles tensing. “Jesus. Who the hell is that?”

  A dog hurtles across the snowy field toward the guy. At the same time, I jump up and start toward the fire-exit door, smashing past people carrying green lunch trays and Cokes, flying by Megan and her little posse all drinking water. I push the big metal handle of the door open. An alarm sounds. Like I care.

  “Miss! Miss!” Some random teacher hauls me back inside, whirling me around and spitting in my face as he talks. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Issie and Devyn’s mouths are hanging wide open.

  “I, um, I was feeling a little claustrophobic,” I lie. “I get lightheaded.”

  “Mr. Marr . . . she has sugar issues,” Issie interrupts.

  “That’s not her only issue,” Megan snarks at her table. People laugh. I ignore them because the man outside has gone, vanished into the woods or something. The dog is gone too.

  Issie keeps going, keeps explaining. “Her grandmother told me. Her grandmother is Betty. You know Betty. She works for Downeast Ambulance.”

  I flash her a thank-you look.

  Mr. Marr’s got the comb-over thing that some bald men try to pull off. It flaps in the wind. He slams the door shut. “Well, you better go get some sugar then, miss.”

  Issie brings me back to the table. Once I sit down, pretend to take some sugar via a caffeinated cola beverage, and Mr. Marr no longer stares, she goes, “Why did you do that?”

  I shrug. “He’s been following me.”

  “He’s been following you?” Devyn says. “The man outside?

  Are you sure?”

  “I know it sounds weird.” I’m all flustered, folding my napkin into smaller and smaller squares. “I swear it’s true, though. I saw him in Charleston. I saw him at the airport. And now he’s here. Something is seriously going on. It is not normal. This . . . this is not normal.”

  Devyn shakes his head. “That can’t be good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The bell rings. Issie stands up, but Devyn doesn’t push away from the table. “Let me do a little research on that, okay? Then we’ll talk.”

  I stand up. “What? Do you think he’s a serial killer or some kind of stalker or something?”

  Devyn nods slowly.

  “It makes no sense. I don’t know why he’d be where I am. You don’t think this is connected to that boy who went missing, do you?” I stare at the top of his head. His hair swirls around like a whirlpool. But it’s his eyes that get me. It’s like he’s holding something back. “You thought he was pointing at you.”

  A muscle twitches in his cheek. His head turns away, just a little bit. “I guess I was wrong.”

  “You were scared.”

  He faces me again. His eyes flash like he’s recognizing something. “So were you.”

  I spend the rest of the day looking out windows, searching for the man. Every class I stare into the woods, watch snow fall off tree limbs, but I don’t see him. I’m so psyched out that just getting up from a chair makes my heart beat fast, like I’ve been running. So when someone’s hand clomps down on my shoulder in the hall right when I’m putting stuff in my locker, I whirl around and scream.

  The coach jumps back. His yellow-tinted glasses slip on his nose. “Zara? It’s Zara, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You jumpy? Did I scare you?” He says things bullet-fast, which does not seem like the Maine way.

  “Sorry.”

  His hand waves away my words. “Whatever. Listen. I know there’s not much time left in the season, but I thought you might want to join.”

  I rub my elbow. “Join?”

  “Cross-country.”

  People meander by. They stare at us. Face after face that I don’t recognize. “Yeah, I’ll join. That would be great.”

  “Don’t smile too big.” He laughs and points at my mouth. “Bugs’ll get in there.”

  I clamp my jaws shut as he coach-punches me in the shoulder.

  “Just kidding.” He laughs again. “See you tomorrow, kid.”

  “Cool!” I manage to say once he’s halfway down the hall, his buzz-cut head almost lost in a mass of fully haired Mainers. I yell, “Thanks!”

  He sticks his arm up in the air and gives me a thumbs-up right when my cell phone rings. I check out the display, momentarily psyched that someone’s already calling me. It’s my mom.

  “Everything going okay?” she asks.

  I stare into my bland gray locker, totally unlike everyone else’s locker. Those are all decorated. Issie’s is full of Hello Kitty stuff.

  “Yep.”

  “Good.”

  Someone in the hall yells for Megan.

  “Make friends yet?”

  I grab some books, not paying attention to what I really need. “Yep.”

  Silence on the phone.

  Then she says, “You were always good at making friends, so outgoing.”

  I jostle the books around. One falls open. The pages bend. I yank it back up.

  “I’m doing cross-country,” I say. “It’s almost over. And then track.”

  “Indoor?”

  “Of course.”

  More silence.

  “I miss you,” she finally says.

  Issie comes up next to me. I smile at Issie and say into the phone, “Then you shouldn’t have sent me away.”

  I click it off and guilt pulls my stomach into all sorts of weird shapes.

  “It was my mom,” I tell Issie as she walks me out to my Subaru. She pretty much bounces the entire way.

  “She must miss you.”

  “I guess.”

  “You mad at her for sending you up here into the Arctic?” she asks as she pushes the school’s big glass front door open. A wind blasts us, blowing snow off the roof and into our faces.

  “A little.” I decide to be honest. “I miss Charleston. It’s so busy and there’s a lot of people and flowers and here it’s so . . .”

  “Cold?”

  I nod. A rabbit pokes up her gray head and looks at us. She sits at the edge of the parking lot, watching. Her nose twitches.

  “Oh, a bunny.” I sigh. The little girl in me really likes bunnies. “I’ve always wanted a bunny.”

  Issie cocks her head. “Really? A bunny?”

  The bunny twitches her whiskers again and surveys the parking lot. The only thing that moves is her eyes.

  I blush. “I know it’s dumb, but they’re so furry and cute and cuddly. I don’t know.”

  “You’re just like me!” she says. “I knew it.”

  “Just like you?”

  “A bunny lover.” She smiles and hugs me. “There are people who like cute, furry things and people who eat cute, furry things.”

  I pat her back, probably awkwardly.

  “I am so glad you’re here,” she says, finally letting go. She must think about this and then she revises it. “I mean, it’s cold and everything, but we have bunnies, although maybe you have bunnies in Charleston . . .”

  I bite my lip, feeling like I’d revealed way too much about myself. I even have bunny pajamas, but I’m not about to tell Issie or anybody else about that, or about my old stuffed bunny, Edgar, and how he sleeps next to my pillow every night.

  “Do you want to come over?” Issie asks. The wind blows her fuzzy hair off her forehead and then into her mouth. She spits it out and keeps smiling.

  “Hair is not tasty,” she says. “You look super cold.”

  “Ah . . .” I unlock the car, pressing my hand against my stomach. “I think I need to go get my car registered at the town office, I’m sorry.”

  I am. Really. Disappointing Issie is like telling a four-year-old that ice cream cones have been banned. If it has to be done, you don’t want to
be the one to do it.

  She stands still. Her face crumples. She tries again.

  “Oh, okay. I have a really cute cat, Muffin. You’d love her, I know.”

  I nod. “That’s a cute name for a cat.”

  “It’s not really original,” she says and then she hugs herself. “How about just for a minute? There’s a lot of stuff about town I should tell you. And Devyn wants to talk to you about the guy you saw. We’ll just swing around front and pick him up. I always bring him home. Thank God. He hated riding the special-ed bus.”

  “That would be cool,” I say, unlocking my car door. “You don’t think he’s still out here, do you?”

  “Devyn?”

  “No. The guy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s long gone,” she smiles. “Right? Okay. Just follow me, okay?”

  She waves and bounces away and I start smiling, really smiling. I can feel it all the way to my heart, even though I can’t actually see the smile. I haven’t smiled that big for a really long time, but Issie is just so cute and lovable that maybe Maine will be okay after all.

  Giant snowflakes drift down from the sky. I tilt my head back as they fall. They are really beautiful when they fall soft and gentle. I stick out my tongue and catch one. It melts in a second.

  I catch another.

  And another.

  . . .

  The roads aren’t too terribly icy and I manage to follow Issie’s little Volkswagen to her house without skidding, slamming on the brakes, or anything like that.

  The whole time I’m driving I’m thinking: This is where my dad grew up. These are the roads he drove. These are the roads he won’t ever drive again. Then I swerve to avoid a pothole.

  Issie is hauling out Devyn’s wheelchair while I park and check out the house.

  “Your house is cute,” I say.

  “It’s very shingled Cape.” She grimaces. “Very Maine. Charleston houses aren’t like this, are they?”

  “Not really,” I say, and lock the car. It makes a comfortable beeping noise.

  “You don’t have to lock it,” Devyn says. He’s standing up beside his chair. I must make some sort of funny look. “Yeah, I can stand.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m such a jerk. I was staring, wasn’t I? God, that’s awful. I’m awful.” I can feel my face go all red as Devyn plops himself into the wheelchair.

  “I’ll forgive you this time.” He smiles. He unlocks some gadget thing on the side and starts wheeling toward the front door.

  “Devyn may eventually walk again,” Issie brags, opening the big red door. “He’s got the doctors all astonished. He wasn’t ever supposed to stand after the accident. He’s a good healer.”

  Devyn gets this pained, embarrassed look so I don’t ask about the accident. He changes the subject. “Issie’s parents work late.”

  “At the bank,” Issie explains. She flops on the couch, pats the cushion next to her, then lunges back up. “Oh. I should offer you something to eat. Are you guys hungry?”

  “I’m good,” I say, taking in the room, the coziness of it. It’s almost like a timber frame house, I would guess.

  “Starving,” Devyn says.

  Issie bounds into the kitchen and comes back with a tub of Breyers ice cream. She plops it on Devyn’s lap and gives him a spoon. “You are always hungry.”

  He flips off the top and digs in. “Too true.”

  We watch him eat. Issie falls back on the couch, but she’s so hyper she starts twitching her foot. The silence is big.

  “So . . . ,” I say. “You guys were going to tell me about the man outside the cafeteria. Have you ever seen him before?”

  Devyn swallows. “I’m not sure. He creeped me out, which is not manly, I know.”

  “You are totally manly,” Is announces in a way that makes both Devyn and me blush. She stops twitching. “Devyn looked up some stuff. You are probably going to have a hard time believing this.”

  I wait. “Uh-huh . . .”

  “You want to tell her?” Issie asks.

  Devyn sticks the spoon in the ice cream carton. It stands up straight. He toughs out the words, “We think he’s a pixie.”

  I wait more.

  Issie rushes in. “Okay. I know it sounds weird, but hear us out, okay?”

  I wonder for a second if everyone in Bedford, Maine, is insane or just Devyn and Issie, and possibly me. I decide to play along. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” Issie continues. “Okay . . . um . . .”

  “You said you saw him at the airport in Charleston,” Devyn starts.

  “On the runway.” I pull my legs up under me and settle into the couch. “And then I saw him here.”

  I shudder, remembering.

  “That’s so weird,” Issie says, tapping her fingers against her leg.

  “I know it’s weird.” I nod. I take a pillow from the couch. It’s dark green and has felt leaves on it. I hug it. “I thought I was imagining it. But you guys saw him today, right?”

  They nod.

  I ask the question. “You think he’s a pixie?”

  They nod again.

  The spoon falls over in the ice cream.

  “Aren’t pixies little winged things that dance around flower gardens?” I ask.

  “Not exactly.” Devyn grabs the spoon like it’ll steady him somehow.

  “Why do you think he’s a pixie?” I finally say, trying to take it all in.

  “He gets from place to place really fast and he leaves gold dust where he walks,” Issie says. “Totally pixie ruler behavior. At least, um, according to the Web site Devyn found.”

  “Gold dust? Like Tinker Bell?” I stand up. It’s too much. “Is this a joke? Some initiation prank, like let’s torment the new girl?”

  “We would never do that to you. That would be so mean.” Issie frowns, all crushed.

  Devyn’s voice raises an octave. “I told you not to tell her the dust part. It sounds stupid.”

  “I know it sounds stupid.” Issie stands up with me. “But it’s true.”

  “Right. It’s true,” I say. I jingle my car keys, itching to leave, but still wanting to hear this for some stupid reason.

  Issie’s practically pleading. “But the Web site said so.”

  “Well, we’re not sure it’s true, Is. It’s a working theory,” Devyn says. His eyes look pained. “I know it seems ridiculous, Zara. I mean, I think it’s kind of ridiculous, but I’ve been all over the Web and I can’t find anything else that would explain this guy.”

  “And why is he following me?”

  “That’s a good question,” Devyn says. “When did you first see him?”

  I do not want to think about it. I have been actively not thinking about this for four months, but Is and Devyn stare up at me with these wide-open, trusting eyes and I just plunge ahead, ignore the ache in me. “After my dad died.”

  Issie and Devyn look confused.

  “You saw him when your dad died?” Issie says.

  Then I remember. This morning there were little glitter sparkles by my car. Dust. Pixie dust. No, it can’t be that. But maybe it’s something else—a calling card, some sort of serial killer hallmark.

  “What?” Devyn asks, wheeling closer. His chair hits a copy of People. “What did you just figure out?”

  “How do you know she figured something out?” Issie asks.

  “She has a look.”

  I close my eyes. I open them. “I’m not sure if I believe the whole pixie thing . . .”

  “But?” Issie straightens herself up, waiting.

  “But,” I continue, “I am pretty positive that the man I saw when my dad died is the same one at the high school. I am pretty damn sure, actually, and I want to find out who the hell he is.”

  Issie tries again. “What if he’s a pixie?”

  I almost laugh. “I don’t think he’s actually a pixie. Maybe a stalker or something.”

  Issie’s eyes light up. “You mean he read the Web site and he’s modeling his behavior?”
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  “Yeah. I don’t know. But if he’s just some normal psycho how can he get everywhere so quickly? It makes no sense. It might just be a big coincidence.”

  “You don’t believe that. You’re just trying to fool yourself, to not be scared,” Issie says.

  I swallow. She’s right. I am.

  “What about the dust?” Devyn urges. “There’s not a lot of it, but it’s there. I saw it.”

  “I don’t know about the dust. Maybe he plants it, like some sort of creepy calling card,” I say, checking my watch. “I’m sorry. I have to go get the car registered before they close.”

  It’s true, but I’m really trying to leave because I just want a second to myself, a second to figure this out.

  When I get to the door, Issie puts her hand on my wrist, gently. “You’ll be careful, right?”

  I nod.

  “You don’t believe us?” Devyn asks, pivoting the chair so he can look at me.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know. The whole pixie thing is weird, but I mean, it’s also weird that I’m here in Maine.”

  “And that he followed you,” Devyn adds.

  “That’s not just weird,” Issie says. “It’s creepy. Really creepy.”

  Amaxophobia

  fear of riding in a car

  This is a fear I’ve never had. Until now.

  “I am amaxophobic!” I announce to the steering wheel. I half hug it to make the point.

  The steering wheel does not hug back.

  There should be a rule that says you can’t get too settled into things because something bad will happen. Oh, I think there is. It’s called Murphy’s law, and it’s about expecting things to go wrong.

  I’ve only driven about three miles from Issie’s when the Subaru tires make this horrible noise. The whole car just slides off to the right. The car angles itself toward the woods.

  “Stop!” I yell. I slam the brakes. The car slows. It stops at a forty-five-degree angle in the breakdown lane.

  “Okay. Stay calm,” I tell the steering wheel. “No need to panic.”

  The wheel does not panic.

  “This is my karmic payback for not figuring out the whole psycho-stalker thing sooner, right?”

  I try to move the car back onto the road and its tires skid. Smoke flies up from beneath them.