“Is something wrong?” She gazes at the cover of the Hayberry Park book: a dirt trail that cuts through the woods.
“Do you know why these books were on the reshelving cart?” I ask her.
Her eyebrows dart upward. “Besides the obvious reason?”
“Did you see anyone with them?”
“I see you with them.”
“Right, but do you know who took them out last?”
“Come,” she says, leading me away, back into the stacks. “What’s going on?”
“These books,” I begin. “All together … they tell a story—my story, what happened to me.”
Katherine takes another look, putting her glasses on. “I don’t understand.”
“All together,” I repeat. “The well, the park, the collection of fairy tales…”
“I thought all of that well business didn’t happen.” She removes her glasses, meeting my eyes again. “You think someone’s playing a joke?”
“Maybe.” I swallow hard, desperate to get away.
“Have you considered the possibility that an environmental science student is doing a project on water and waste systems? Or that someone studying English is writing a paper on the evolution of fairy tales? And perhaps a student in Professor Jameson’s local history class is researching the park.”
“Maybe,” I repeat.
“Look, I just shelved a biography of Justin Bieber, a baby name book, and a copy of At Your Cervix. But you know what? It doesn’t put a Belieber in my belly.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re going to work in a library, you’re going to see all sorts of research going on, including topics that hit close to home. Believe me, when my aunt was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, it seemed every title I touched had to do with memory and neuroscience.”
“Okay, but that’s not this.”
“It is, in fact. The books are talking to you. It’s an old librarian’s expression. Now, why don’t you do us both a favor and microwave some popcorn. I’ll be down in a few, and we can check out the new movie releases.”
While she heads off to the copy room, I make a beeline for the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. I breathe here—in and out—sitting on the toilet, with the books stacked in my lap. My phone vibrates. A reminder to take my meds. I log on to Jane instead.
JA Admin: Welcome, NightTerra. Remember the rules: no judgments, no swearing, no inappropriate remarks. This is a safe space for honesty and support.
Paylee22: Too funny!! I mean, seriously?! A ladle?
TulipPrincess: Lol!!
Paylee22: Hey, NightTerra!
NightTerra: I’m so glad to find you on here.
Paylee22: Is everything ok?
Paylee22:???
RainyDayFever: What’s going on?
NightTerra: I’m at work …
NightTerra: And it’s filled with triggers.
TulipPrincess: A.k.a. demons.
Paylee22: What kind of triggers?
NightTerra: Books that reminded me of what happened six months ago. The titles, I mean …
RainyDayFever:???
NightTerra: They were on the return cart. Three titles that reminded me of everything I went through—about the park and the well … There was also a collection of fairy tales.
NightTerra: I’m trying really hard to hold it all together …
NightTerra: But I feel like I’m coming apart.
NightTerra: I just never know what to think.
NightTerra: Or who to trust, including myself.
NightTerra: Am I just reading into everything, making connections that aren’t really there?
Paylee22: I agree. It’s def hard.
NightTerra: Sometimes I feel like I’m my own worst enemy.
Paylee22: I feel like that too. Believe me. Just remember you’re not alone.
TulipPrincess: You have us!
RainyDayFever: You also have ice cream and doughnuts. Lol.
NightTerra: I should probably go. My boss is going to be looking for me.
Paylee22: You sure you’re ok to go back???
RainyDayFever: Can you go home early? Just say you don’t feel good.
NightTerra: I think I’ll be ok.
Paylee22: Terra, I’m worried about you.
Paylee22: Come back on later, ok?
NightTerra: Ok.
Paylee22: Promise? I’ll be waiting for you.
NightTerra: Yes. Promise.
NightTerra: xo
Paylee22: xoxoxo
I log off, exit the bathroom, and go downstairs. Back behind the circulation desk, I scan each title’s bar code into the computer. It seems the fairy-tale book was taken out two months ago. But both the water-well book and the park guide haven’t been checked out at all, meaning someone in the library pulled them off the shelves but then decided not to borrow them.
I look around again—at people working, students studying, everyone just going about their business. So maybe it is a coincidence that all three titles ended up together on the same cart, on the same shelf, on the same night I was asked to put them away.
Or maybe not.
NOW
19
JA Admin: Welcome, NightTerra. Remember the rules: no judgments, no swearing, no inappropriate remarks. This is a safe space for honesty and support.
TulipPrincess: Exactly my point! My mom started going to a support group for victims of domestic violence. The thought of that makes me want to puke because, once again, she’s the victim.
Paylee22: I’m really sorry.
TulipPrincess: And I’m really done. Two months until I’m legal. Then I’m moving out.
TulipPrincess: NightTerra, I’m so glad to see you back on here. I’ve been thinking about you!
RainyDayFever: How did the rest of your work shift go?
NightTerra: I got through it, at least.
Paylee22: NightTerra, I’ve been thinking about those library books.
Paylee22: Are you worried they might be more than just triggers?
NightTerra: I’m not really sure.
Paylee22: I’m sort of in a similar situation.
Paylee22: When I came back into my room after breakfast this morning, I found the window behind my bed cracked open. It hadn’t been like that before, so it triggered me.
Paylee22: Should I have a) recognized the open window as a trigger and moved past it? Or b) considered the open window a possible clue that something threatening might take place?
NightTerra: How about c) asked your parents if either one of them had opened your window?
Paylee22: I actually did that, and both said no. But they offered to take me to my therapist, saying I’m driving myself crazy.
TulipPrincess: Are you??? (Insert suspicious grin here.)
Paylee22: I just have this feeling that the guy who took me is going to come back. I don’t think he’s finished with me yet.
NightTerra: Deep breath, remember?
TulipPrincess: Paylee, your crime was totally random, right? He grabbed you off the street?
Paylee22: Yes, random, at least that’s what everyone believes, which is one of the many reasons I don’t like to go out now.
Paylee22: I’d been on a hike and taken a detour onto a back road, having heard about an old, abandoned elementary school, which seemed like a cool idea at the time—to check out, I mean—but in hindsight it was really stupid.
Paylee22: A car pulled up beside me at the school. Some guy got out and said he was a cop. He was wearing a uniform and flashed me what looked like a badge. But I couldn’t really tell.
Paylee22: He said I was trespassing, and that I needed to go with him. I went to get a closer look at the badge, and he grabbed me, snapped my head back, and put something over my mouth. He shoved me into the car.
Paylee22: I blacked out, then woke up later, in a shed, in the middle of a cornfield.
TulipPrincess: Wait, so you saw his face?
Paylee22: Not really. He was wearing these bi
g mirrored sunglasses and a hat, so I couldn’t really see much. Plus, he was a lot taller than me and I was so focused on that bogus badge.
TulipPrincess: Was anyone else in the shed?
Paylee22: No. Just me.
TulipPrincess: For how long?
Paylee22: It took me three days to escape. I found a loose floorboard. I was able to pull it up. Beneath the floor was dirt. I made a tunnel, like a groundhog, and dug my way out.
TulipPrincess: With your bare hands???
SugarRush911: Is that even possible?
Paylee22: I found a pointed rock that helped. I still have it. I keep it on my night table.
Paylee22: Now, looking back, I kind of wonder if he wanted me to escape—if that’s how he gets his kicks … Like the way hunters sometimes catch their prey then let it go just to keep on hunting.
Paylee22: I saw a movie like that once—about some guy on an island who kept catching and releasing a girl who’d gotten stranded, just so he could continue to hunt her.
NightTerra: Wait, is that seriously a thing???
SugarRush911: Can we talk about something else now, please?
TulipPrincess: I feel like I read a short story like that once. About a guy who hunted humans …
Darwin12: “The Most Dangerous Game” by Richard Connell.
SugarRush911: And I’ll say it again: Can we talk about something else now, please? Paylee22 isn’t the only one going through stuff.
Paylee22: You’re right. I’ve monopolized the chat.
Paylee22: I should probably go anyway.
NightTerra: Wait, I want to talk to you more.
Paylee22 has left the chat room. There are currently 5 people in the chat room.
I send her a direct message to move to a private chat room and follow it with a link, hoping she hasn’t logged off. But she doesn’t respond, even several moments later.
SugarRush911: Sorry (not sorry). It gets a little (a lot) tiring with her constantly playing the victim. She’s not the only one with issues.
TulipPrincess: No, but she’s the only one with her issues.
SugarRush911: Let’s be real. She’s a total attention whore. No one’s after her.
NightTerra: You don’t even know what you’re talking about.
SugarRush911: Says the girl who’s always asking if she’s crazy.
JA Admin: Intervening here. We have rules on this chat site. Let’s review them now.
My face burns hot because I didn’t see that coming: SugarRush knowing my weak spot when I never directly shared it with her.
It’s called a chat site for a reason, Logic says. Lots of people lurk and “listen” without making themselves known.
I go into my JaneBox and type Peyton a message:
Hey there,
I tried to catch you before you logged off. I’m sorry about SugarRush. After you left the convo, the Jane police stepped in, as did many of us. We all love you immensely, especially me. I hope to chat with you soon. I’m also happy to sleep in a chat room again if you want the company.
Xoxo,
Terra
I hit send. But still I don’t feel better. I stay logged on, in case Peyton comes back, then click the Hulu app to watch another episode of Summer’s Story—not exactly my favorite (a series about a girl named Summer whose mother abandons her at a camp commune). But I know watching the episode will make Peyton happy, and so I do.
NOW
20
I wake up later, feeling a hollowness inside my heart, an absence so heavy that it presses against my ribs and makes it hard to breathe.
The door is closed.
The windows are locked.
I reach for my laptop, at the foot of my bed, to check if Peyton is logged on to chat. She didn’t come back on last night—not through four full episodes of Summer’s Story. It doesn’t appear she’s on now either, and I have no new messages in my JaneBox.
Now what?
I grab my bottle of maple syrup and hold on tight, trying to think of a safer time, like Dr. Mary used to advise, like the visit to Story Land with my parents when I was six or seven, when Mom pulled a packet of maple syrup from her bag and drizzled it over her fries. The woman at the table beside us was so inspired, she asked Mom for an extra packet so that she could try it too. The memory helps, but it isn’t enough. My chest still feels tight. My insides won’t stop racing. And I’ve already taken my meds.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling this way, I’m not even sure what causes it. A thought? An image? A nightmare I don’t remember? I gaze up at my bulletin board over my desk—at the photo of Felix and me, posing at the Emo relay race in potato sacks, sophomore year. I miss his superpower ability to inject me with me a much-needed dose of reality when the thoughts inside my brain would spiral me out of control.
“What am I going to do without you?” I asked him shortly before he left for college.
Felix was the one person who hadn’t called me a liar, who’d never seemed to care what everybody else was saying.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s all going to work out for you too. You’ll finish school, check that box, and get on with your life. What do you want to do? Where do you want to be?”
The questions were too big. “Do you know those answers for yourself?”
“I know that I don’t want to be here, in this microscopic town, with only one flavor. I want to do stuff, make a difference, not get held back by old ghosts. That’s your problem too. Everybody in this town knows you. You need to get the hell out of Dodge and start fresh.” His eyes were fired with excitement, as if there wasn’t a single doubt he was going to do something great.
I open up my phone and search for his name. Is it crazy to think he might want to talk to me too? I press his number anyway, desperate to hear him call me Terra-saurus, to slip back into the way things were before, when we’d debate about stuff like longest-lasting gum flavor and fizziest seltzer brand.
Felix picks up on the fourth ring. The screen looks dark; there’s just a sliver of his face. “Terra Train?” His other nickname for me.
“Hey.” I fake a smile.
“Did somebody die?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s five thirty in the morning. Has someone been hurt? Stabbed? Killed? Has there been a national catastrophe?” He sits up farther, enabling me to see that he’s still in bed, that the light’s turned off.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I forgot you had a roommate.”
“What does a roommate have to do with calling me at the ass crack of dawn?”
The question is a direct hit, straight to my heart. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “Nothing’s wrong. I just haven’t talked to you in a bit. We can catch up another time.”
“No, wait.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m up now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure.” He yawns.
“It’s nothing, really. I just woke up in a panic. I was going to go online, but then I remembered our pact, and how you used to be the person that I called in a panic.”
“Remember that?” He smiles. “Night chats, little sleep, red eyes in the morning, and caffeine shots just to get through the day … And even then … Recall the time I started ugly-snoring in group, complete with bobblehead and a vibrating tongue.”
“Just as Morgan was confessing to having suicide fantasies.”
“Good times.” He laughs. “It feels like a lifetime ago now.”
“It’s only been months.”
“And speaking of Emo,” he segues, “how’s it going there? Does Ms. Strazinski still bleach her leg hair behind the desk?”
“I’m finishing up online, remember?”
“Right.” Another yawn. “Online is better. You can sleep in as late as you like.”
“And some days I don’t even need to get out of bed at all. It’s not necessarily a plus.”
“Speak for yourself. I had no choice but to register for two eight a.m. classes. Talk about bobbleheads a
nd bloodshot eyes.”
“I should let you go.”
“Not yet. It’s good to hear from you. How’s everything else going?”
“Everything else?”
“Yeah, are you feeling better about stuff?”
“Are you talking about the fire?”
“No. I’m talking about all that drama from last year.”
“When I was taken, you mean?”
“Okay.”
Not okay. My heart forms a crack.
“Are things becoming clearer?” he continues, making the crack worse—longer, deeper; it spider veins to my gut.
“Hey, you know who goes here?” he asks, steering the conversation again. “Remember Hannah Cahill? From Emo?”
“Of course, I remember.” Hannah Blowing-Kisses Cahill, from the grocery store parking lot. Hannah, who wrapped her arms around me and told me to call her for anything, but then who hung up on me just days after that.
“Yeah, she’s actually pretty cool. We hung out at a party last weekend and your name came up. Who knew, right?”
Who knew? He knew. Because I’d told him. Because I’d cried on his shoulder—for two hours straight—after Hannah had called me a liar and brought up that stuff about my parents.
“I should let you go,” I say once again.
Felix sits up straighter, wearing the T-shirt he bought last fall in Onion Square: the one with the camouflaged unicorn. It’s the only thing I recognize.
“Don’t go yet,” he says. “It’s been too long.”
I’ve been too damaged.
Too much time has passed.
“I really have to go,” I tell him. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff I need to do.”
“At five thirty in the morning?”
I peer over my shoulder at absolutely nothing. “I just wanted to say hello.”
“Well, hello back, and I’m really glad you did. It was good to talk to you, Terra Train.”
“Yeah, you too.”
I shut the phone off and fold into the bed with my old bedroom doorknob pressed against my chest. Seeing how evolved Felix seems just makes everything worse: much more stifling, totally and completely isolating. Why do he, Jessie, and Hannah get to move on and be normal, while I’m stuck here?
The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep Page 9
