Glimmer

by Phoebe Kitanidis

  This is a girl who’s happy and content. Who knows exactly who she is, who’s never for a moment felt unsafe or scared. She’s beautiful, in all the ways I’m not . . . and never can be. It hurts to look at her, but I linger in the doorway, unable to look away.

  “‘The waterfall was their holy place, and the tribe’s medicine woman lived as close to the water as the spirit would allow her. Once, and only once, the spirit even let her swim in its waters without harm.’”

  Great, a story encouraging kids to go swimming in a waterfall. That’s when it occurs to me to wonder: Is the story supposed to be about this valley? A local legend about this waterfall?

  “‘But one day a strange man and his wife came to the valley. The man told the medicine woman that he had brought gifts for the water spirit and needed her permission to get near it. Now, the tribe knew something wasn’t right about this man. His smile did not reach the corners of his eyes. But they also knew the spirit was powerful, powerful enough to devour any mere man who tried to get the better of it, so they all agreed to let him build an underwater stone labyrinth on the condition that he pay the tribe in grains and metals.

  “‘When the man’s labyrinth of stones was finished, he laughed with delight. Holding his wife’s hand, they dove together underneath the surface of the water. But the spirit did not devour him. It had no chance to. The man was an evil magician and he had weighed the spirit down with stones so it could not move, and then he whispered the words of his magic spell to it. At that moment, the medicine woman lost her power, and without her guidance the tribe dispersed. Many fish died in the water. Many trees fell, and in place of the trees appeared a labyrinth of buildings nearly identical to the one the magician had built underwater. From then on, the water spirit was no longer wild and free but was enslaved by the magician.’”

  To my surprise, the kids and their parents are clapping, and when I look up, the tall girl is showing them the final picture, but just before she closes the book I can see a tuft of paper sticking out from the spine. Extra pages have been torn out from the end. No wonder the book didn’t have a satisfying ending. Why didn’t anyone else notice?

  The door opens outward and a young mother slides past me with her toddler son in tow. “Thanks for the story, Carla!” the little boy calls behind him.

  Before I can duck out of the doorway, the tall reader turns and waves good-bye to the kid, and her eyes lock on mine. “Leese!” she squeals.

  I freeze, caught in the headlights of her searching gaze, then realize I have to go over to her. Obviously this girl and I know each other well. Very well. If I had to guess, I’d say this was my best friend.

  Was.

  I can’t think of one thing to say to her.

  “I’ve been texting you all day.” She points to her purse. “Where were you, slacker? Miss school again?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. Again? So I miss class a lot? A bell goes off in my head, but it’s not a lost memory returning. It’s the memory of Kerry at the clinic this morning, asking what I’d done to myself this time. Why am I always at the clinic?

  Carla grins at me and whispers under her breath, “You were totally hungover from the party, weren’t you?”

  “Hungover?” I say stupidly, not wanting to commit myself to an answer, but it comes out sounding like, “Yes.”

  “I knew it. You were pretty sloshed at Dan’s. Of course, he was too . . .”

  Sloshed, what a gross word. So sloppy and wet, so out of control. I look at Carla’s perfectly flat hair and decide she’s never been sloshed in her perfect life. Much as it pains me, I need to stay close to her at least for now. She knows so much about me that every sentence out of her mouth gives me new info to process. Like, I went to a party last night. Hosted by some lush named Dan.

  Then again, I’m also a lush. Who misses school a lot, possibly from being drunk-sick. Lovely. I’m afraid to learn more about myself. But I’m even more afraid of staying a blank. Of never being whole again, ending up in the asylum.

  “I can’t believe you’re here.” She giggles. “In the library.”

  Jesus. Am I that well-known for being illiterate? “I got bored, okay?” I say, hoping after the fact that my defensive tone sounds like the old Elyse.

  “If you’re bored with partying, maybe you should try some volunteering.” Carla smiles, a little bit smugly, in my opinion. “Reading to kids is such great practice.”

  “For what?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

  Carla throws me a hesitant look, like she thinks I might be making fun of her. “For when we have kids, hello? Ticktock. Graduation’s in two weeks, gonna be adults soon.”

  “I guess.” I’m thinking Carla must be one of those obsessive planning types who think ten to twenty years ahead. But as I glance down at the now squirming semicircle of kids on the carpet, the moms and dads kneeling to zip up sweaters and tie shoelaces don’t look much older than we are. They look about the same age as Candace, the college student staying at Preston House. So why haven’t any of these people gone off to college themselves? Come to think of it, Liz, my own mother, can’t be older than her early thirties. Which means when she had me—

  Before I can complete that scary thought, Carla’s purse rings with a tinny R & B riff. She pulls out a sleek silver phone. “Oh, it’s Pete!” I can tell from the sudden purr in her tone that Pete is her boyfriend. She thumbs a quick response and flips the keyboard shut. “I was just telling them that I found you,” she says earnestly, swinging her purse over her shoulder. Who’s them? I can’t ask. I’m clearly supposed to know. “And that you weren’t answering texts before because you were still hungover. But I only said that part because it seemed like they were getting worried.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, thinking that as soon as I get back home I need to find that phone and see who I text and what about. It’s probably buried deep in the pink pile carpet.

  “Are you sure everything’s okay?” She smiles nervously. “I mean, we always text each other back.”

  I hate lying, but I can’t see a way around it this time. “I lost my phone charger,” I say, “and the battery’s dead. Sorry I didn’t get back to you.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to apologize!” Carla throws up her hands, stepping away. “I’m just relieved you’re not mad at me.”

  Inwardly I cringe. Am I a total bully to my friends?

  Carla keeps staring at me, like she’s expecting me to say or do something. But I’m still overwhelmed by the ugly picture forming in my mind of the person I used to be.

  Finally she says, “Um, Elyse? You do remember the plan, right? They’re meeting us down by the Ferris wheel.”

  They again. So it’s a group. Well, that works okay, since I was going to catch up with Dark-Eyed Boy at the fair later anyway. He can meet my friends. “Of course.” I hate lying, and to make matters worse I’m bad at it.

  “Okay, so, I’m ready when you are,” she says.

  Holy crap. She’s waiting for me to tell her it’s time to go. This beautiful girl who reads in a rich, hypnotic voice is waiting for me to call the shots. “Let’s go to the fair,” I say decisively, and she beams and follows me outside to Main Street.

  “So, I liked the story you picked,” I say as we walk, and again, Carla beams.

  “Thanks!”

  “But I noticed there were pages torn out from the end.”

  She blinks at me. “It’s a library book,” she says as if I’ve said something stupid. “The last few pages are always just ads from the publisher, and the librarian pulls them out.”

  Really? “But it felt like the story didn’t end. I mean what happened to the tribe with no name? Was that part based on a real tribe, by the way?” Because they weren’t part of Liz’s Welcome to Preston House history lesson, I hadn’t even thought of the people who had lived here before.

  But, again, she gives me a weird look. “That is the end,” she says. “And of course it’s not real, it’s a fairy tale—not like you haven’
t heard it a million times, same as me. Are you still feeling sick from yesterday?”

  I can hear, or imagine I can hear, a hidden accusation in her velvet tones. Or are you ready for the asylum? I back off quickly. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m still . . . hungover.”

  Her soft brown eyes stay fixed on me the rest of the way.

  By the time Carla and I get over there, the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round have already started running and there’s a carnival excitement in the air. Kids run by with clouds of pink or blue cotton candy bigger than their heads, getting in line for Whack a Mole or the Strong Man. The smell of hot dogs grilling mingles with frying funnel cakes and elephant ears.

  Carla makes a beeline for her boyfriend, Pete, a chiseled, auburn-haired hunk wearing an orange and white letterman jacket. I watch them peck chastely at each other’s lips, feeling vaguely like I’m watching two dolls make out. They’ll make beautiful children together, and if Carla has her way it’ll be soon.

  Suddenly I’m enveloped by strong arms, held so tight I feel like I’m being choked. Help!

  “Hey, babe,” says an unfamiliar voice. The boy it belongs to spins me around and lunges for me, his lips crashing into mine, his stubble burning my skin, his hot tongue forcing my mouth open. He tastes like cigarette smoke. Ugh. I step on his foot, jerk out of his arms.

  “Ow!” he yells in surprise. Then he laughs. “What the hell was that about?”

  Carla rubs her forehead. “Did you guys have some fight I forgot about?”

  The reality of the situation dawns on me. His grabbing and kissing me wasn’t a random assault. This guy, whose letterman jacket proudly proclaims him Dan “The Man,” felt justified and comfortable putting his hands and tongue on me, and no one else thought it was weird. Which can only mean . . . he’s my boyfriend. Or my sort-of boyfriend, at least. Or he was my sort-of boyfriend. Is there a proper term for a boy you don’t remember but never dumped? Oh, why didn’t Liz prepare me? And why do I let him call me babe?

  “I love how you can be so unpredictable sometimes,” Dan says. “My wild girl.” He pulls strands of my hair out of my eyes and gazes at me fondly, as if my stepping on him is the most adorable thing any girl’s ever done. And the thing is, he’s beautiful. Sculpted, tall, sure. Dark-Eyed Boy—well, he’s hot, in an intense way. But a picture of Dark-Eyed Boy can’t convey his weird charisma, while a picture of Dan would look just as perfect as Dan looks right now, laughing in the sun. He looks golden, like a Greek god.

  The kaleidoscope of my world has shifted again. And I have to get away.

  Chapter 14

  DARK-EYED BOY

  I figure that crowds always know when something important’s about to start, so as the sun’s setting I head off in the direction of town square, where a large mob is gathering.

  The few picnic tables in the square have multiplied, and spaghetti dinner’s being served on checkered tablecloths with fireflies in jars as the centerpieces for each table. At one of the many food booths, I see a woman in pigtails wearing a baker’s hat and apron and recognize Hazel, the confused lady who answered the door for us this morning. Other people are preparing plates of cookies and scones and other baked goods, but she just stands there waving at the crowd like a mascot.

  As I move toward the front, no one jostles me, with or without an excuse me, and no one makes eye contact either. But they do move to let me pass, either silently, if they’re alone, or without stopping conversation with their friends. It’s as if when people see me they’re aware something’s taking up that piece of space—but their minds stop short of noticing that something (me) directly.

  Once I realize that, I take advantage of it and weave easily through the mob, checking for Elyse.

  I feel her hand on my back before I see her. “Hey,” she says. “I ran into some friends.”

  “Cool, where are they?”

  “In line for hot dogs. I don’t eat hot dogs,” she says. “Plus I sort of had to get away from them.”

  “Your friends?”

  “Just for a few minutes.”

  “Act normal. You can’t let them suspect, Elyse.”

  “I know, believe me. It’s just hard,” she says. “Not being able to be honest with people. I mean, I know I can’t tell them. . . . But it means hanging out with them feels like lying all the time. And lying is exhausting.”

  I reach over and kiss the top of her head.

  “What was that for?”

  “For being compulsively honest. It’s something I like about you.”

  A fortyish guy with male-pattern baldness steps up to the statue and speaks into a microphone, and everyone goes quiet. “My dear cit-i-zens,” he reads haltingly from his notes. “As your mayor I am proud and pleased to announce the beginning of summer fair.” Applause. “Now, before the fun com-men-ces, I have a few public-service messages. It is of utmost importance that you remember to turn off your ovens when you leave your houses.” A murmuring in the crowd. “I would also like to announce that Tim’s Hardware is running a great deal on floor padding. . . . Now, let’s all give it up for the Preston Trust, thanks to whose dollars we now enjoy a freshly painted library! Another round of applause. I spot Elyse’s parents ahead of us in the crowd, Jeffry’s beefy arm hooked around Liz’s shoulder.

  “All right, folks,” the mayor announces. “It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, a special Summer Falls tradition. It’s time to make the man!”

  Elyse and I glance at each other.

  “Did he say we’re going to ‘make a man’?” I ask.

  “Weird,” she says, shrugging.

  “Let him have two feet to stand on,” the mayor intones.

  A bullhorn sounds, and suddenly Liz is off like a shot, rushing to join a cluster of adult women that quickly splits into two blobs. One on the right, one on the left.

  “Let him have legs to carry him forward in the world.”

  This time when the horn sounds, I hear a squeal, and suddenly girls under twenty-five are running into the fray, arranging themselves in two, thick messy lines above the “feet.” This just keeps getting weirder. I turn to catch Elyse’s eye, but she’s gone too. Disappeared into the mob. I’m relieved, if a little creeped out, to spot her white hoodie somewhere near the man’s right knee. Was she just trying to keep from standing out from the other townspeople? No, she moved too fast for that. Some part of her remembers this local tradition from past fairs. But is it muscle memory or brain memory?

  The mayor moves on to his next line. “Let him have a strong body to protect what’s his.”

  Most of the men, including Jeffry, peel from the crowd and swagger forward.

  “Let him have arms to reach out to the world and make his mark on it.”

  Boys of all ages race to form two lines.

  “Let him have clever hands to work his craft.”

  This time I recognize Bette, the lady from the antique store, and see several adults in purple Mollie’s Milkshakes aprons.

  “Let him have a head full of knowledge and a voice to share it with.”

  I see Kerry from the clinic up at the man’s head as well as Joe and other people I assume are teachers. And the doctor too, in his white lab coat and stethoscope.

  At this point the only people still in the audience are the mayor and a few hundred people I figure must be tourists. At least there are enough that I don’t stand out.

  “Let him have blood,” the mayor adds triumphantly. “To bring his body nutrients.”

  With a rustling of excitement, the tourists run into the fray. Haphazardly Candace and Jim walk past me, hand in hand.

  I look at the blobby shape on the square in front of me. If you don’t think about it too hard, it does look like a person. A person with crooked legs and clown feet, but a person.

  The mayor yells into his microphone, “Who is this man in front of me?”

  In one voice, each syllable a thunderclap, the townspeople shout, “He’s. Our. Town.”

  “O
ur town,” the mayor intones. “It lives and breathes, like any man. He has a head full of intelligence—our doctors, teachers, and librarians. He stands on a solid foundation of unconditional love and service, our mothers and homemakers. The powerful limbs that move him forward are our youth, our young scholars. He has clever hands like our artisans on Main Street. His body is as strong as our mill—” A strange pause. He must have forgotten the mill closed. Awkward. “As strong as our men who are fathers, husbands, protectors, and providers. Is this man complete?”

  “No!” everyone shouts.

  “What does this man need to complete him?”

  “A heart and a soul.” Even some of the tourists yell it out. They’ve clearly been here before.

  “Then let this man have a heart and a soul.”

  At this, the mayor and priest walk over to the “man” made of people, at about waist level, and are instantly sucked into the crowd. They appear again side by side in the man’s chest, carried on the shoulders of the men who make up his trunk.

  A photographer snaps a picture.

  This is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  “May he stay healthy, wealthy, and wise till next summer!”

  The people making up the “man” all cheer wildly and then disperse.

  Elyse comes back, looking sheepish.

  “What was that about?”

  “I don’t know.” Her cheeks are growing pink. “I mean, it sounds like it’s a yearly tradition. I guess I’ve just done it so many times, it’s automatic. I still feel like an idiot.”

  “Don’t,” I say. “At least you have a hometown, stupid traditions and all. I don’t even have a name yet.”

  She gives me a look of sympathy.

  “Other than the name you gave me,” I add, and she leans closer and smiles, her eyes traveling to mine. In one day we’ve forged a closeness with each other. We’re a two-person team, with our own shared memories, our own language.