by eden Hudson
“The worst part’s knowing you have someone and still feeling so damn lonely,” he said.
That hit me right inside my hollowed-out soul. When Soda and I went back to my room, I wasn’t even surprised. I told myself I needed to feel some love if I was going to keep getting up in front of everyone and pouring out my heart. Anyway, better with a guy I knew, who understood me, than with random groupies like Mena had started doing.
The next morning, thinking about calling Danny made me physically sick. I threw up twice. Then I couldn’t concentrate on anything he was saying. All I could think of was my mom crying, holding the pieces of her favorite porcelain angel figurine, and saying, “Damn it, Shannon, why do you have to break everything you touch?” When Danny asked me what was wrong, I told him I wasn’t feeling well and that I needed to go.
After Soda, I didn’t touch anyone for weeks. I needed to—worse than anything—but I didn’t. Then it was Rick, a ‘zine guy who had been following us for a while and working on a profile of the band. I was never going to do it again, but after Rick, it was Darren, someone’s friend. And after Darren, it was Brett or Brent or something with a B-R. I don’t remember much about B-R except that he’d been at a couple of shows. Then Danny and I broke up. The guys stopped having names. I hooked up with a couple of different musicians—Philly most recently and disastrously—but I kept having sex on the road with faceless bodies. Until Corey last year. Until Tiffani last night.
Sitting on the couch, I start to pick out a dark, twisted thing that almost can’t be called a melody. It’s not a song, it’s a soul, and it’s mine. Jesus Christ, it’s bad. I need a drink or something.
Tiffani must’ve been up and around for longer than I thought. Except for the kitchen, the hole Danny punched in the wall, and some scuffs and scratches that I assume came from me throwing and smashing everything I could pick up, the apartment is spotless. And when I go to the fridge, there’s a plate of deviled eggs on the shelf, two little ramekins of crème brulee, and a tall pitcher of fresh-squeezed-and-poured margarita—her drink of choice back when she was alive.
I get myself a glass and take the pitcher and the salt shaker back to the coffee table. Pretend to tune up my acoustic again, but my hands are trembling so bad that I send the A way sharp and can’t get my fingers to cooperate enough to bring it back down. I give up and put the acoustic on its stand.
For a while, I just sit with my legs pulled up to my chest, drinking.
If I tell Tiffani that I freaked out, that I really do love her, but I was a creep to her because I was scared, I know she’ll forgive me. We’ll have sex on her darkroom futon and everything will be okay for a little while.
But I don’t want to do that to her. Not again.
Think about anything else. Try to put off the inevitable surrender as long as possible.
The margarita’s not helping the jitters much. Tiffani probably didn’t put enough tequila in—that whole super-smell thing has its drawbacks. I go to the bar and look through the cabinets until I find a bottle and bust that thing open.
Speaking of the jitters, what was the deal with Corey last night? Was he trying to get it across to me that my anxiety pills are definitely not kosher? Could I get arrested for having those on me? Maybe I should get the damn things out of my purse before I go on this magical overseas adventure tour and wind up in a Turkish prison or something.
I set the bottle of tequila on the counter, then grab for it when it slides off into the sink.
“Shit!”
It just makes a lot of noise, it doesn’t break like I expected. Maybe Tiffani won’t either. Maybe she’ll stay with me even though I used how much she wants me to love her to get her to fuck me. Fuck me until my brains came out and I couldn’t feel the mess inside me—that was what Danny said, wasn’t it? Like I could fucking forget. I remember every word that asshole’s ever said to me. Like he’s so amazing. He’s the jerk who couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t run around on him. Oh, and he was right, so great, he’s this all-knowing, holier-than-me, God’s favorite preacher-boy.
What was I doing? Right—anxiety pills. It’s so weird being drunk and jittery at the same time. It clashes, inside you and inside your head.
I find my purse, pick it up, and immediately almost drop it. Maybe Tiffani did put enough tequila in the margarita after all.
My pills are buried down at the bottom of my purse, right where Johnny Law would look first. I don’t recognize the name of the doctor on the label, and when I open the bottle, they could be any other white horse pills in the world. “Unidentified,” the cop said last night.
What if these are illegal? What if I get my ass sent to prison because Corey cut corners because I fucked him after my sister and dad died and then kicked him to the curb and now he wishes I would just go away? What if the same thing happens with Tiffani? Or worse, what if she wants to stay, but I can’t handle it? What if I have to make her leave? I’ll never find somebody else who believes that I’m being followed by the angel of death and destruction.
And what if I’m not?
Ha. I’m finally so paranoid that I came all the way back around to sane.
I look down at the open bottle in one hand and the cap in the other. Did I take some already?
No, I would remember if I had. I shake a few pills into my palm. Then add a couple more so they’ll kick in faster.
Danny
I can feel the difference when I wake up. It’s definitely not logical, but knowing that another human knows what kind of coward I am—somebody besides just me and Shannon—is sort of a relief.
Then while I’m stepping into the shower, I feel God lift the weight off me. I’ve been trying to ignore that murky swamp inside my heart for so long that I’m not sure how to react. I try to tell God I’m sorry for thinking He would ever leave me to deal with something on my own, or to thank Him for sending Noah to talk some sense into me, or ask Him to be with Shannon and take care of her, but I can’t get my thoughts in order. I don’t worry about it. God knows what I want to say, even if I don’t.
“Daniel.”
“I’ve been in here for five seconds,” I yell at Clare, then go back to rinsing the shampoo out of my eyes.
“Daniel, get out.”
The shower’s running hot, but goose bumps prickle down my back. That’s not Clare’s voice.
“Clare?” I yell.
Nothing.
I swallow hard.
“Noah?” I whisper, but I know it’s not him.
“Daniel, get out of the shower now.”
My hands are shaking as I shut off the water.
“Go,” God says. “Now.”
I’m soaked, but I don’t slow down to dry off before I get dressed.
When I come out of the bathroom, Noah and Clare stop what they’re doing and stare.
“Miracles do happen,” Clare says.
“I didn’t think you had a fifteen-minute shower in you, Country.” Noah checks his watch. “We might actually have time to get some hot breakfast this morning.”
I stomp my shoes on and grab a room key.
Clare jumps up. “Where do you think you’re—”
“I don’t know,” I say, opening the door. “If I don’t meet you all at the conference, then I’ll call the hotel and leave a message.”
Noah’s only wearing one shoe, but he follows me into the hallway. “Danny!”
I stop for a second.
He’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Even if I could find the words to explain what’s happening, I know that Noah wouldn’t believe me. We’re too much alike. Clare can take anything on faith. Noah and I need evidence and logic and time to process. But there isn’t time. Something’s wrong. Something awful.
“It’s Shannon,” I say.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize they’re the truth.
I turn and run.
Shannon
We’re walking the creek at Danny’s, tryin
g to find a spot that’s deep enough to at least sit in and hoping that will take the edge off this ungodly heat. We would’ve gone swimming at the lake outside town, but Bub Gudehaus’s cousin drowned there at the beginning of the summer and it’s been shut down ever since.
“I think this’s the deepest we’re going to find,” Danny says, nodding at a stagnant shallow that’s got a heat scum overtop.
“Gross,” I say.
He shrugs. “Take it or leave it.”
“Definitely leave it.”
We start walking again.
“I’m getting sunburned,” I say, adjusting the straps of my three-year-old swimsuit. It’s been getting smaller lately, boob-wise.
“Let’s head back to the running part by the fence. The water there’d at least be halfway clean,” Danny says. “And we can sit under the trees so you don’t get burned too bad.”
“You just want to be where your parents can’t see us,” I say. “You’re trying to seduce me.”
“You wish.”
“Don’t you?”
Danny tries to look a hole in the creek water. It’s so hot that it’s hard to tell whether that red in his face is from the sun or embarrassment. I know for sure he’s not going to answer me, though.
So I say, “I do wish.”
“Whatever,” he says.
“Yeah, ‘cause guys are the only ones who ever get so—” I can’t think of a word that won’t make me sound like a godless heathen. “—so bad they think they’ll die if they don’t…do something.”
Danny stops walking and stares at me like he doesn’t quite believe I’m standing there.
“Girls can’t do something…can they?” he asks.
“Can you?” I ask. “Isn’t that illegal? Aren’t you supposed to pray it away or something?”
Danny snorts. “Pray for something that God purposely put in humans to go away?”
“Let’s be clear here,” I say. “I’m talking about being turned on. Like, horniness.”
“Trust me, we’re on the same page,” he says.
“But you can’t do anything. You’re not supposed to.”
He scratches the back of his neck and looks up at the sky, over at the fence line—anywhere but at me. Finally, he says, “It doesn’t say that anywhere in the Bible.”
In the sunshine and heat by the creek, I take a big, exaggerated gasp and bounce up and down on my toes.
“Danny Whitney—” I drop my voice to a stage whisper. “—masturbates?”
The laugh is half humiliation and half his true laugh. It’s so sweet that I want to reach up and kiss him. I don’t understand the power I’ve got over him right now, but it has to do with sex and I like it.
“You’re going to have to explain this one to me,” I say. “How is it not wrong to paint the fence?”
Danny raises an eyebrow at me.
“I was looking for some other way to say it so I don’t have to keep getting up the guts to say ‘masturbate,’” I explain.
“Paint the fence it is, then,” he says. For a second he gets that look on his face like he’s about to disagree with Mr. Freitag about the answer to a test question. Then Danny starts walking again. “God created man and woman, then He told them to have sex and populate the earth, right?”
“Sure.”
“But He created a woman’s body with…parts…that are just for pleasure, right?”
“I’ll say.”
That makes him laugh again.
“Stop it,” he says, “I’m trying to be serious. Anyway, they don’t serve any other purpose than to feel good. And with guys it’s so easy to, you know, do something. And you want to all the time. Or I do, anyway.” He shakes his head. “I’m doing a really bad job of explaining the theory behind this.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I like watching you squirm. Keep going.”
Danny’s not fifteen. He’s not all gawky arms and legs and so stick-thin that he has to keep pulling up his swimming trunks. Not anymore. I know that, but I don’t want to think about how I know that.
“God created man and woman to want to have sex for pleasure and comfort and love and to populate the earth, obviously,” fifteen-year-old Danny is saying, “But He didn’t want people to have sex before they found the person they were meant to spend their lives with. But He also created us so that we start wanting to before we’re even old enough to know what love is. And some people—you know, like Paul—God made to be by themselves. Paul was the one who said it wasn’t good to burn with lust. It gets in the way of your meditating on and serving God, makes it hard to think clearly. So there’s got to be some sort of pressure release—”
I can’t hold it in, I bust out laughing.
Danny shoves me.
“Release,” I choke between gasps for air. I can’t even stand up straight I’m laughing so hard.
His voice squeaks when he yells, “I couldn’t think of a different way to say it!”
“The pressure’s building! I can’t take it anymore! I’m going to—I’m going to—release!”
Now Danny’s laughing, too.
“Red-headed witch.” He grabs me by the arm. “Somebody ought to make you confess.”
“Let me go,” I yell. “If you push me in that mud, Daniel Whitney, I swear—”
“Confess, witch!” He drops to his knees and drags me down with him. “You’ve bargained with Satan in trade for thy unholy red locks!”
I screech and try to smack him, but he keeps dodging and shoving me down toward the muck. Five minutes later, we’re both covered with stinking mud and I’ve only gotten one punch in—and not even a very good one—but it’s too hot to keep wrestling.
Danny stretches out on his back and puts his hands behind his head, staring up at the sky.
“You’re not off the hook,” I say, sitting up. “I want to hear the rest of this.”
“Nah,” he says, “I’m going to maintain some dignity and quit while I’m ahead.”
“Maintain this.” I smear mud across his face, especially his mouth.
He spits it at me, then pulls me down until I have to lie beside him. The mud’s not so bad, maybe even a little cooler than the air. I’ve never touched Danny’s bare chest before.
“So, what do you think about?” I ask. “Do you think about girls?”
He frowns. “That would be like using somebody. And without their consent. A lot like rape.”
“And that’s what makes it wrong in your theory,” I say. “So, what do you think about? When you…do it.”
“God. Jesus.” He tries to shrug, but he’s blushing so hard that it’s a wonder the mud doesn’t melt right off his face. “The glory of the Lord. That sort of thing.”
“Does that, like— When you’re in church, do you, um—”
Danny shakes his head.
“I don’t have wet dreams about the crucifixion, either,” he says. “That’d be pretty weird.”
“What do you have wet dreams about?” I ask.
He shifts uncomfortably. “Don’t be mad at me.”
“Look at me, Danny. I’m covered in smelly cow-crap-mud. I couldn’t possibly get any madder.”
He said, “You,” but so quietly that first time that I couldn’t hear.
“What’s that thing Pastor Gauge says about mumbling being the root of all evil?” I asked.
I mean, I ask.
Fifteen-year-old Danny says, “You,” and I ask him what his dad said about mumbling because I don’t hear him the first time and because this is where I am—in the past. I don’t know that I’m going to screw around on Danny yet or that the band is going on tour the year after next or that Danny’s going to dump me and become this gorgeous creature who hates me. Music is never going to turn on me, either, and I have no idea that the angel of death is going to kill Charlotte and Dad because of me.
It’s just summer. The air feels like fire in my lungs. There’s no sentient being in charge of the universe. There’s only me and Danny and the w
ay he looks at me. I feel like a goddess.
Danny
I don’t stop to figure out the subways or to look out for cars. I run—across streets, down sidewalks, through crowds of people coming out of the stations and getting coffee from street vendors. Cars honk and people yell at me to watch where I’m going, but I ignore them. I don’t know the way, but I trust God to get me there. He does.
In front of Shannon’s building I realize that I don’t know the gate code, either, so I grab the cast iron spikes at the top of the fence and haul myself over. You think they’d have better security in this city.
Turns out, they do. It’s called a locked door. The window is reinforced with wire—I don’t think I can kick it in. I take a step back. The second-story balcony is way out of my reach and the wall doesn’t have any cracks or seams I can use for footholds.
Shannon could be hurt or dying and I’m standing here stopped by a lock.
“God, let me in,” I beg.
A wealthy-looking, elderly lady comes into the front hall, pulling a tiny brown-haired mop on a leash.
My first instinct is to bang on the door until she opens it up, but common sense stops me. If I do that, she’ll probably call the police.
I knock.
She takes hours getting to the door.
“Yes?” she says.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I say, pushing past her and heading for the stairs. “It’s an emergency.”
On Shannon’s floor, I go straight for her door. Another lock. I step back and kick until the metal threshold cracks and bends away from the wall.
“Shannon?” I yell.
“Call an ambulance!” a woman’s voice yells. Not Shannon.
“Tiffani?” I don’t see the vampire. I don’t see anyone. “Where’s Shannon?”
“The living room,” Tiffani yells. It sounds like she’s in another room. “Call 911 now!”
I round the couch and skid to my knees beside Shannon’s body.
