by Carrie Jones
She takes some paper napkins from under the sink and Hops them on the table. "There probably won't even be a call."
Halfway through dinner Belly's beeper goes off.
"Crap!"
We listen to the scanner. There's a possible cardiac arrest at the Y.
"Sorry," she says. "You stay put till I get back. Okay? I'm calling Mick on my way in."
"No, you aren't!"
"Yes, I am. And don't let anyone else in. I'm serious, Zara. Crap." She kisses me on the top of the head and pushes a bracelet on my wrist, all hectic. "Your mom's thinking about coming up for a visit."
I lift up my arm. An iron bracelet dangles there. "What's this?"
"A little gift."
She hauls on her jacket. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't worry about cleaning up."
"Do not call Nick!" I touch the cold metal of the bracelet.
She ignores me. "Lock the door!"
I could do the Urgent Action appeals for Amnesty. But I don't.
I could call Nick and tell him not to come. I don't do that either.
"This is One. I'm I0-23 at the Y," Betty's voice sounds from the radio she has on the counter.
The dispatcher, Josie, comes on "I0-4, Unit One. I0-23 at the Y, I845 hours."
In ambulancespeak I0-23 means "on location." Anyone else would just say they were there. Unit One is Betty; I845 hours is the time, military-style. It's all kind of corny.
So Betty is at the Y. It is 6:45 p.m., also known as I845 hours. How can I know this stuff? There's a list of ten codes Betty posted on the fridge. I swear I've memorized half already. Maine is turning me into such a geek.
I push away from the table, dump our dinner plates into the sink, and start scraping off the spaghetti.
Betty hasn't finished hers because she dashed out, so I change my mind and wrap it up, storing it away in the fridge. She might be hungry later. I keep scraping mine away. It is no fun eating alone.
I stare out the window above the sink at the dark woods. The moon is full and it makes everything glow and look almost pretty. Even the snow looks nice, not so cold. I bet the guy is out there, the pixie guy.
And I bet if I go out there he'll find me, and then maybe I'll get some answers. And I'm not a boy, so I don't think I'm in any real danger.
Betty's voice is back on the radio, "I'll be I0-6, taking one forty-five-year-old male to Bangor. He's CH3. I0-4?"
Cardiac issues. Chest pain. Just like my dad.
"I0-4," says Josie at dispatch.
"I0-4," I say to the radio, as if they can hear me. "I'll be I0-6, going running, looking for a pixie guy.
I0-3?"
I rush up the stairs into my room and start pulling out running clothes. I have tights for the cold weather and a layer of Under Armour to wick the sweat away from my skin. It's the sweat that makes you feel cold. I find a wool hat in Betty's closet and put it over my hair, which is the worst look imaginable when you have lots of fine hair like I do, but it isn't like I'm going to a beauty pageant, trying to be Miss Maine or something. I'm going running in the dark, nobody will see me. Until Mick gets here.
That's right.
I am going running and maybe I'll find that boy-stealing pixie guy. I pull the hat on and pause for a second without really thinking about it, and look in the mirror at the paler, thinner version of me that I've become. Even my eyes are dull. Blue, but not as blue as they used to be. If my dad were here he'd be taking my temperature and trying to feed me French onion soup. But it isn't my body that's sick. It's my insides. My insides are hollow. My insides are hollow because I've been too scared of living and going on, which is totally self-indulgent and awful, because think of all those people in prisons for nothing-for blogging, for speaking, for thinking differently. They'd probably give anything to move forward, to go on.
Is there a name for this fear? I'm not sure: I should look it up. There's tachophobia, which is a fear of speed, of moving too fast.
I shake myself out of my haze and lace up my sneakers. This is the first step in moving forward, the first step in pixie hunting, the first step in taking control of my life, because I can.
I text a message to lssie, telling her I'm going for a quick run and that we should do some more Internet investigating tomorrow at lunch. Then I text Nick.
Gone running. See you ON ROAD.
There, my bases are covered and I'm going pixie hunting.
Scotophobia the fear of darkness
My mother is afraid of the dark.
When I was little we had nightlights all over the house, not just in my bedroom and the bathroom. There were two in the upstairs hallway, one in every guest room, one in the kitchen, the dining room, the downstairs bathrooms, the living room, everywhere.
I asked her about it once. We were in the kitchen. I was sitting on the counter, feet dangling, wearing my Elmo pajamas and watching her cook. "Why are you scared of the dark, Mommy?"
She'd been making pancakes, stirring up the batter. She spilled blueberries into the bowl and stirred and stirred.
"I'm not."
"Then why do we have a million nightlights?"
She banged the spoon against the big ceramic bowl, the one with the two maroon stripes around the rim.
"That's so you don't get scared."
"I'm not scared," I said. "I like the dark."
"No, you don't."
She stared at me, her face hardening into something unrecognizable. She'd stirred the batter too much and broke all the blueberries apart.
"The pancakes are blue," I told her.
She looked at the bowl, frowning, and let go of the spoon. "Oops!"
"It's okay. Blue is pretty."
She kissed me on the nose and said, "Let me tell you something, Zara. Sometimes there are things that people should be afraid of."
"Like the dark?"
She shook her head. "No, more the absence of light. Understand?"
I nodded, but I didn't understand, not at all.
I slam out the door and down the steps. I don't warm up. I don't stretch. I just start jogging under the light of the moon. Frost crystals form on the windows of the house. The trees seem heavy from the weight of the air.
There is a definite absence of light, but I've rigged up one of those headband flashlight things, so I won't trip as long as I'm careful.
Something about the cold air just rips through my lungs when I run. Every breath is like an ax into my chest. Every breath is a decision I have to make, a decision to live, to go on.
It hurts but I push through it and then the pain numbs. It isn't like it's gone, but more like it just isn't so wrenching anymore. I don't think there's any other word for it than wrenching.
Breathing should always be easy, but nothing is easy in Maine. Nothing is easy in the cold. I keep running though: turning out of the driveway and onto the main road. It's easier to run on the asphalt than it is on the dirt because of foot placement. But it is harder on my joints and scarier too, like something is watching.
My legs stretch out and I pick up the pace, but that feeling conies back. A noise thuds in the dark forest beside me and I keep running. Maine makes me skittish. I've never been such a wimp. I ran through all sorts of neighborhoods in Charleston and I never got scared there.
I hate being scared.
"If you can name something, it's not so scary," my dad always said. "People are afraid of what they don't know."
I turn my head and scan the woods, but all I can make out are trees and shadows. I can't see anyone in there or anything.
My mind fills with visions of bears and wolves, but the only bears Maine has are black bears, and they're pretty much terrified of people. The Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife swears that there are no wolves in Maine, just coyotes. I know this because I checked their Web site after I saw the huge paw prints in the snow my first morning. I told Grandma Betty about them. What had she said?
"They're afraid to admit there are wolves here, but
everyone knows it's true. Anyway, it's nothing to worry about. Wolves don't bother people."
That's what I tell myself,Wolves don't bother people. Wolves don't bother people.
It doesn't help.
Wolves don't bother people. Pixies bother people.
That spider-crawly feeling comes back along the palms of my hands.
Then I hear it.
My name.
"Zara."
I stumble a little, trip over a rock or something that's in the breakdown lane of the road. Why are there no cars out here? Oh, that's right. Maine isn't the most populated state in the country, especially Betty's part of Maine.
I keep running, picking up the pace, listening. Then I hear it again. It seems to echo off every tree in the forest. It seems to come from both sides of the road, behind me, all around. Still, it is soft. A soft whisper, commanding.
"Zara. Come to me, Zara."
It sounds so cheesy, so much like a bad musical line, that it's not really that scary. Oh, that's a huge lie.
I'm totally scared. Crap. Crapcrapcrap.
I wanted this. I wanted to draw him out. But now? Fear pushes my feet faster, makes my heart speed up too fast. It pounds against my chest, trying to escape. But from what? A voice? A shadow? I came out here to find him. He's found me.
The truth slams into me: I didn't imagine that man at the airport.
I didn't imagine the way my skin felt each time I saw him.
I didn't imagine that dust or make up the words in that book.
The sound of large wings slashing through the air makes me look up. An eagle flies over my head and then ducks into the trees. Its white head gleams.
"Stupid," I say. "I'm so stupid. I probably just heard the eagle."
If my dad were here he'd laugh at what a wimp I'm being. I laugh at what a wimp I'm being and I keep running. My breath comes out in ragged puffs. I push it in and out, focus on my feet.
"Zara!"
I stop. Anger fills me. To hell with wimp. To hell with Booker T. quotes.
"What?"
I plant my feet and wait.
The cold air chills me. I shiver. My hands turn into fists.
"What do you want?" I yell. "Why arc you following me?"
I force my eyes wide open and look for something, Hashing my light around. What am I looking for?
Maybe a man? Maybe a man in a dark European suit? Maybe the kind of man who points at planes and makes your skin feel like it has become a spider parade route?
The forest seems to look with me. Each tree branch reaches out as if trying to sense what is there in the road with me. Then something in the woods moves. I grab a stick from the side of the road, hold it in front of me, and turn to face the noise. The light swings with me and I keep searching. It isn't a real noise, more like a sense, a feeling of movement.
"I'm not scared," I say, staring into the side of the road. "Just come out and talk to me. I've been reading about you. I found a book."
My voice shakes when I speak. The hand holding the stick is not too steady either.
"Zara," the voice says. "Come to me."
"Right."
"Please."
"No," I say. "You want to talk, you come out here."
The eagle screams out a warning.
Something snaps in the woods behind me, the opposite direction of the voice and the first noise. I twist around, ready for anything-crazy men, wolves, bears, dinosaurs.
"I know you're a freaking pixie, and if you think that scares me, you're stupid!" I yell. "And I know that you're following me."
The woods are silent. The spider feeling goes away.
"What? You just leave? You're toying with me? That is so lame."
Nothing.
"If you want me to be your stupid queen you should stop hiding. But I've got to tell you something, Mr.
Pixie Guy, there will be no more torturing boys while I'm here! Got it?" Anger hits me in the gut and I roar, really, I just roar like some sort of crazy actor in a wrestling match. I scream out my rage in some steroidal guttural way. I came out here because I want to findhim, because I want to know what's real, because I want to stop it.
Blinding light flashes into my eyes and a MINI Cooper engine roars as it rounds the curve in the road. A horn blares and I jump sideways out of the way and into the ditch. A rock scrapes my cheek. It takes me a second to figure out what happened. I stand up. I've dropped the stick. The world waves in front of me, hazy and unfocused. The light falls off my head and I can't find it.
"Zara!" Nick slams the door of his now parked car. He rushes to me and stands in front of me. I can't see his features because of the headlights shining behind him. He is just a massive silhouette, but I'd know that silhouette anywhere.
"What are you doing out here?" His voice comes out angry.
My voice is whisper weak. "I wanted to find him."
"What?" His hands ball into fists and his whole body quakes. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
I shrink back. Nobody has ever yelled at me like that. Never.
He's so mad, I almost expect him to hit me. I must have swayed because he grabs me, puts an arm around my waist, and leads me toward the MINI.
"I just wanted to stop it. I wanted to save someone like I couldn't save my…"
"I'll take you home," he says, a lot more quietly.
The inside of his car smells like him, like pine wood and the sea. I touch my face. Blood covers my fingers.
Nick grabs a wad of tissues and presses them against my cheek.
"It's okay," I say.
His eyes tell a different story.
"Don't be mad at me." I move my fingers up to the tissue against my cheek. My fingers graze his fingers.
Something electric-good and shocky-surges through me. Maybe he feels it too, because he pulls away.
He stares at the blood on his fingers and his jaw hardens.
"Lock your door," he orders.
I do.
He puts the car in drive and takes me to Betty's. It doesn't take long, but he doesn't say anything the entire way and the silence presses against me.
Everything inside of me tingles and waits and dreads.
Next to me, Nick drums his fingers on the top of the steering wheel.
"You want to tell me what happened out there?" Nick asks.
I stare out at the road. The moon hangs above us, waiting maybe. The trees are dark. I touch my head where the headlamp should be.
Finally I say, "I don't know. I think the pixie guy was out there calling my name, like in some horror movie, and then I yelled back at him, and there was an eagle, and then I yelled some more, and he was gone."
"You scared the pixie away? Is that what you're saying?"
"I don't know."
"Why did you go out there?"
"I wanted him to take me. I don't want you to get hurt or Devyn or anybody. So I figured… It sounds so stupid."
"You were going to sacrifice yourself to save everyone else?"
I cringe. "Then I wimped out."
Nick pulls up to Betty's and hops out of the MINI. I unlock my door and he lifts me out, placing both of his big hands on either side of my waist like I'm a little kid or something.
"I'm fine," I say, trying to pull away. "I can walk."
He arches an eyebrow but lets me go and watches me sway on the driveway. "I think you've had a shock" "Well, you almost ran me over."
"You were standing in the middle of the road," he argues, hustling me inside.
"You were speeding," I tease.
I open the door to Betty's house and turn.
"I was not speeding," he says, fixing his hat. It has a bigB on it for Bedford.
"I'm sorry," I say. And I am. I lean against the door that is quiet and doesn't complain about things or your behavior or anything like that. Doors are very good that way. Blood has seeped through the tissue. I hold it against my cheek.
He watches me and doesn't move. So I add, "I went out in Charl
eston all the time."
"This is not Charleston."
I laugh. "That's for sure."
"Zara, this is serious." He pushes me lightly into the house.
"Why, because it's about pixies? 'Zara, this is serious,' " I turn and walk toward the sofa, feeling ridiculous because I've totally lost my cool and acted like some diabolical dictator or something, and I've got to hold on to some dignity. I plunk myself onto the corner of the couch. I grab onto the armrest. He stays standing. Of course. Not like he'd want to hang out and stay awhile, maybe have some hot cocoa, talk about why everyone in this annoying town is so deranged and paranoid and can run so darn fast.
"What?" I manage to say. "Aren't you leaving?"
"I promised Betty." His jaw firms up and then he says in a calm but forceful tone, kind of like an actor trying to play a cop, "You can't go out after dark."
"I'm not a boy."
"No? Really?" His mouth loosens up. "But you are what the pixie guy wants."
"You think so? Then why doesn't he just grab me? Why does he just call my name?" I pull the tissue away from my face. Blood drips.
"Maybe that's the rule. I don't know. I feel like I don't know anything." Nick yanks me up by the arms and brings me into the kitchen. It still smells like spaghetti.
He grabs a dish towel and shoves it under the faucet, then presses it against my head. The water drips down my face.
"Sorry. Forgot to wring it out," he says and blushes, actually blushes, as he wrings it out over the sink.
His fingers twist and squeeze the cloth. Then he brings it back up to my skin. His touch is actually almost tender and his eyes seem to soften a little. I stare up at him, leaning against the counter. He is so very close. With his free hand, he cups my uninjured cheek and tilts his head, staring at me, staring into me.
"I can't figure you out," he says.
I swallow. His eyes watch my neck move and then they harden as they look at the dish towel over my cut.
"Are you trying to drive me crazy?" he says.
"No."
If I keep my eyes open and take a little time maybe I could figure him out, but do I really want to try?
Probably.
"Betty is going to kill you." His thumb moves slightly against my cheek but it's enough to make me tremble, and not in a bad way. Something is so going on but I don't know what.
