The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Hey, wait. I can drive you home,” Garret offered. “Both of you, actually. Are you guys at the main campus?”

  “Try again.” Jessie laughed. “We’re Emo students.”

  “Emo?” Garret’s face scrunched. He didn’t get it.

  I wasn’t about to explain it.

  “Seriously, I don’t mind at all,” he said.

  Part of me was tempted to take him up on the offer. But I knew better; rule number two on my parents’ list of survival tips: Don’t go off with anyone you don’t know (and only half trust those you do). “Thank you anyway, but I can call someone,” I told him.

  “Okay, but I’m right here.” He touched my forearm—a gentle squeeze.

  I felt it in my thighs. “No, really. I’ll be fine,” I insisted.

  But he insisted too. “I’ll wait with you, then. Until someone picks you up.”

  I wanted to say yes, but I also wanted a moment. The air felt suddenly thick. I couldn’t get a solid breath. “I’m going to find a bathroom.”

  I turned away and headed back through the kitchen. The bathroom was around the corner. And I really meant to use it—to take my meds, to give myself a pause. But on impulse, I passed it and went out the patio doors.

  It felt better outside—calmer, cooler, way less stifling. I told myself, I’ll just take a second to breathe. I’ll only need a minute to process.

  But before I knew it, I was out on the street, calling my aunt. It went straight to voice mail, which was really no surprise. My aunt was working until six that morning: the overnight shift. It’s her job to stick people with needles, as an IV nurse. But even if I’d wanted to leave her a message, her mailbox was already full.

  I called my friend Felix next, a fellow Emo. He’d recently gotten his license.

  Felix picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Terra Train. Aren’t you the night owl? Calling me after one…? Please tell me you’re doing something scandalous and that you can send me a pic.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Just the audio, then?”

  “Listen, I know it’s late, but can you come pick me up?”

  “On my magical broomstick? I don’t have a car, remember?”

  “Can you borrow your stepdad’s?”

  “Why? Is everything okay?”

  “I wouldn’t be calling at this hour if it were.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Jordan Road, not far from the college. I was at a party, but Jessie ditched me.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to hang out with that psycho-train? You know she’s a compulsive liar, right? All that crap about partying with the royals and her family’s private jet…”

  “Do you think you can come get me?”

  “That bad?”

  “The worst.”

  “Okay, um, maybe? Give me five minutes, and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”

  We hung up, and I started walking, trying to focus on the road and not the shortness of my breath or the tearing of my heels in my stupid wedges. I hated them now. I hated Jessie too. And with each step I took away from the party, I hated myself more and more—for ditching Garret, for not saying goodbye. It was too late to go back now.

  Cars drove by. Some guy honked his horn. Another guy rolled down his window, stuck his head out, and asked me for my fee.

  A VW van slowed down as it passed. I held up my phone and snapped a shot of the license plate, just in case. My parents had taught me that too—rule number three: Always have your phone ready—to make a call, to take a pic …

  What was taking Felix so long?

  I crossed the street and turned a corner onto a quiet, narrow road. Trees lined it on both sides, making it seem even darker. There weren’t nearly enough streetlights. A lone one at the end blinked a bunch of times, shining over an old car with a boxy hood.

  I moved closer, just as a car door slammed. I stopped short and peered behind me. A prickly sensation crawled over my skin.

  Footsteps began in my direction—a scuffing sound, like rubber-soled shoes against the gravel. I reached into my purse, dug into my card case, and felt for the card with the sharpest edge (a trick I’d learned in self-defense class).

  A porch light shone a few doors down. I sped up, heading toward it. The person behind me sped up too.

  Should I cross the street?

  Or call for help?

  Or knock on someone’s door?

  I clenched my phone and woke it up.

  “Excuse me?” a male voice called from behind. “I think you may have dropped something.”

  I started to run, rounding a corner, cutting between two houses and through an open, grassy area.

  What was this? A public park? A private field? And what was I doing in a secluded area? Like some stupid cliché.

  Tall, massive trees fenced me in on both sides. Should I use my flashlight, or was I safer in the dark, camouflaged by the night?

  A stick broke somewhere behind me. I quickened my pace and looked down at my keypad, just as a text came in from Jessie: a drunk emoji, complete with a cockeyed expression, along with a message: Where are you???? My sister said you can crash here too #score

  I accidently clicked the message, my fingers trembling, my pulse racing.

  And then, out of nowhere …

  Bam.

  Whomp.

  I fell to the ground, landing with a hard, heavy smack. My legs splayed open. My card went flying.

  “I’m so sorry,” some guy said.

  My world whirred.

  The guy was dressed in black; tiny light reflectors accented his clothes: his pants, his shirt, his hat.

  I sat up just as the guy extended a hand to help me up.

  “I thought you were going to the right, but then you swerved left,” he said. “It’s so dark.”

  And so cold.

  Plus, I couldn’t stop shaking. Even my teeth chattered.

  The guy’s eyes narrowed; they were pale blue. His fingers looked exceptionally long, covered by light-reflector gloves. “You really shouldn’t be out here alone at this hour.”

  I scooched away and got up on my own. Where was my card?

  His gaze traveled down my legs toward my stupid shoes. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to call someone for you? Or walk you back to the main street?”

  Back? How had he known I’d come from the main road? I shook my head and pressed my phone on again.

  “Here,” he said, shining his flashlight over my Emo ID, just a few inches from his feet (gray running sneakers, the New Balance brand, with a thick white tread). He picked it up and handed it to me.

  I hesitated before defying yet another one of my parents’ rules—this time about never allowing a stranger to hand me anything. I took the card and secured it in my grip, imagining it like a blade.

  “Okay, well, right through there.” He nodded toward a path, then pointed his light in the same direction. “Straight ahead … It’s Maple Street.”

  I kept focused on his posture. His shoulders were back. His stance was guarded. His feet were set about a foot apart. Predators normally inch forward, commanding space while assessing trust. It appeared he’d actually taken a step back.

  Another stick broke from somewhere behind us. His gaze followed.

  “Be careful out here,” he said before moving on. He started running again.

  So did I.

  My flashlight shining, I darted for the path, able to see the familiar fluorescent light of the Lightning Gas Station: the golden bolt.

  When at last I’d made it, I stood away from the pumps to try phoning my aunt again, on the off chance she might pick up. No dice.

  I continued forward. A mini-mart stood up ahead, across the street. I hobbled toward it, tempted to remove my shoes. I’d be faster with bare feet. I started to cross the road just as the VW-van-from-before came screeching around the corner, straight in my direction, stunning me still. Did he see me? Or was it too dark? Did he notic
e the flashlight beam?

  A loud, blaring siren sounded then. The van’s horn. The driver wasn’t slowing down. He was coming straight for me. The headlights flashed, blinding me, telling me I needed to move.

  I lurched forward, diving onto the sidewalk, landing on my forearms, peeling free the top layer of skin. Still, the van continued down the street, screeching around a corner.

  I got up and continued to the convenience store, only to discover the CLOSED sign hanging on the door. Meanwhile, blood dripped down the length of my forearms. Dirt tattooed my skin. I sat on a bench, trying to hold it all together. Anxiety walloped inside my heart, cinching my lungs, stealing my breath.

  Finally, my phone went off.

  Felix: “I’m really sorry, Terra, but I can’t find my stepdad’s keys. I’m thinking they’re in his bedroom, in one of his pockets, probably, but he and my mom are currently occupied—draw your own conclusions—and I can’t exactly risk a lifetime of damaging images I won’t ever be able to erase. But where are you? I’ll take my bike.”

  I stood up, trying to picture the tension inside my chest like a ball of ice that gets smaller with each breath.

  “Terra?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Are you sure? Where are you, even?”

  “Not far now. I’ll be home soon enough.” Two more streets, plus up one hill, then just over a bridge. “I’m about twenty minutes away.”

  “How about Uber-ing home, just this once?”

  “You know I won’t.”

  “It’s no different from a cab.”

  “I don’t do cabs either. I’m just going to walk.”

  “Okay, so pretend I’m walking with you. Talk to me until you get home. How was your night?”

  A wheeze escaped from my throat. “I can’t right now.”

  “Talking and walking, I get it. In fact, I get winded just thinking about it. So, how about I tell you about my night?”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “Quite the contrary, not good at all—unless you consider whining, moody, cod-craving pregger-cats endearing.”

  I’d never been so happy—or willing—to hear about Felix’s feline dilemmas (his mother was a breeder of the Persian variety). About fifteen minutes—and three angry cat stories—later, I finally arrived home to my aunt’s house. I snagged the key from the planter on the stoop and unlocked the door.

  “You there?” Felix asked.

  “Here,” I said, tossing the key back and locking up behind me.

  “Better?”

  “Much.” I let out a breath. “I seriously owe you one.”

  “How about your vintage Gucci shades? They look way better on me anyway.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks again.” I clicked the phone off and peered outside, from behind the curtain, unable to shake the gnawing sensation of being watched.

  But the street looked quiet.

  And everyone’s lights were off.

  It’s a peaceful night, I told myself. The purply sky was punctuated by the sliver of a yellow moon and a sprinkling of stars. Had my father been by my side, he’d have told me a sky that color meant the following day was sure to be beautiful.

  Unfortunately, I’d never find out.

  NOW

  3

  I wake up early and go downstairs. My aunt is already up, dressed in her running gear. She places a bowl of oatmeal in front of me, at the kitchen table.

  “What are your plans for today?” she asks.

  “School stuff,” I lie. I’m taking online classes to earn my GED.

  “You should get out for a walk. It’s a beautiful day.” She downs a shot of wheatgrass, straight from the juicer.

  I’m actually planning to walk—a five-mile trek through Hayberry Park—but she doesn’t need to know that.

  “How’s school going anyway?” she asks.

  The real answer: I’m failing history, and I got a 58 on my most recent geometry exam. What I actually say: “It’s going pretty well.”

  “Nice.” She nods. “The way you’ve been working so hard, trying to turn things around … Your parents would be proud.”

  Correction: My parents would never buy a bit of this BS. They also would’ve believed me six months ago, when I came home covered in dirt and needing stronger meds.

  I force a bite of oatmeal: steel-cut oats, soaked overnight in almond milk, and freshly ground flaxseed. My aunt is a health nut. Clean body, clean mind. There’s no place for my dirty, pill-popping self.

  I pour a layer of maple syrup over the oatmeal, much to Aunt Dessa’s distaste. I can see the irritation twitching on her lip. To her, maple syrup is the devil’s food, right up there with sugar, flour, and hydrogenated oil. To me, it’s holy water because it reminds me of my mother.

  “Aren’t you going to have some?” I ask her.

  My aunt pushes in her chair, even though she never sat; the legs make a scratching sound against the floor. “I’m going to head out for my run, but I’ll be back in an hour, okay?”

  She pokes her earbuds in before I can respond, then forces a smile—the same off-centered grin as my mother’s. My aunt Dessa looks a lot like my mother too—same honey-colored hair, same wide brown eyes and pointed chin. Even her voice sounds similar: delicate, like tinkling wind chimes. Sometimes, when I hear her talking on her cell, I’ll linger a few seconds, imagining it’s my mother’s voice, that Mom’s still here with me.

  Other times, I’ll pretend it’s my dad’s coffee cup on the table, that he just stepped away for a second, to answer an email, to change his shirt. He’ll be right back, I tell myself.

  After my aunt leaves, I retreat to my room, wishing my parents were here for real. Five years ago, I lost them in a blaze. And for the eight days that followed, I refused to speak a word. I slept at the foot of my aunt’s bed, two towns away, cuddled up with a bottle of maple syrup, while the smoke rose up within me. I could taste it in my mouth; it burned my tongue and scalded my will to live.

  Sometimes I remember random details from the night they died, like the pink pajama bottoms I wore. And the root beer floats Mom and I had made earlier that evening. Plus, the word problems Dad had helped me with, including the one about train stops and gallons of fuel that neither of us could figure out.

  I remember sounds too: the loud, hard crack that finally woke me up; the shattering of glass; and the pleading wails. So much screaming. But I’d been deep in sleep; my brain had registered the wails as part of a dream.

  A burning-rubber scent filled the room. Clouds of smoke filtered through the space at the bottom of the door. I jumped out of bed and flicked the light switch.

  But nothing happened.

  The switch wasn’t working.

  And meanwhile, the wailing continued. It took me a beat to realize it was my mother’s voice: my mother’s screams.

  I heard my father shout, Terra, can you open your bedroom door?

  Where was he?

  At the end of the hall?

  I tried my bedroom doorknob as he continued to yell. The metal seared my skin, radiated to my heart. Smoke filtered through the shiny grain, turning the panel black. I stepped back, just as another cracking sounded.

  The house was coming apart.

  My head was caving in.

  “Dad?” I called.

  He didn’t answer.

  I grabbed a sweatshirt and used it as a makeshift glove to try the knob again. But it was still too hot. And the air was way too thick. I brought the sweatshirt to my face to keep from hacking up. But I couldn’t stop wheezing. The burning-tire smell seeped into my lungs, caused my eyes to sting.

  I bolted for the window, threw the pane and screen open, and climbed on top of my desk to access the sill. Sirens blared from streets away. As crazy as it sounds, it hadn’t even dawned on me to call 9-1-1.

  But maybe my parents had.

  I could no longer hear their voices. Maybe Dad had gone back downstairs. Probably, they’d already gotten out
. Their bedroom was on the first floor, behind the kitchen pantry, not far from the patio doors.

  Beneath my window was the driveway pavement. Neighbors had come outside, into the middle of the street. Mr. Jensen, who used to sit on his front lawn whittling stakes for his garden, came running in my direction with a tall metal ladder. Neighbors say he helped coach me down.

  That Mr. Chung got out his garden hose.

  That Mrs. Wheeler knelt down in the middle of the street to pray with her rosaries.

  My memory has holes, so there’s a lot I don’t remember. But one major thing I do: the bright ball of fire coming out the side of the house like something you’d see in movies, and the black clouds of smoke as they drifted up toward the sky—too big to be real, too much to take in.

  “What’s happening?” I shouted to whomever would hear me.

  Where were my parents?

  Why couldn’t I find them?

  Fire trucks showed up. Bright flashing lights turned the pavement red and blue. Someone draped a jacket over my shoulders.

  Someone else whispered into my ear, “The firefighters will do the best they can.”

  What did that mean? What was “the best”?

  I ran toward the front entrance, where the firefighters had gone in, heat pressing against my face, smoke wafting up my nostrils. But people held me back—hands and fingers and shoulders and grips—despite my kicking and screaming and pushing and pleading.

  I woke up sometime later in a strange room, on a strange couch, unsure how I’d gotten there.

  “Terra, are you awake?” Mrs. Wilder’s voice. She stood in the doorway with clumps of tissues balled up in her hands.

  I was in my neighbor’s house, in my neighbor’s living room. I recognized it now: the picture window that faced my driveway with the stained-glass sun that hung in the center.

  “You blacked out, honey,” she said.

  Blacked out? Was that even a thing? Why were her eyes so red?

  I got up and peeked through one of the sun’s rays, at first thinking the tempered glass must create a distorted effect, because the image across the street—my childhood home—was no longer the way it should’ve been.