The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “So much fight.” His voice is at my neck; it sends shivers down my back.

  Something damp and heavy blankets my face. A cold, wet cloth is stuffed into my mouth.

  “I admire that so much,” he whispers into my ear. “Such a strong character you are.”

  I sidestep, just as I learned in self-defense, so he can’t get a secure footing, then bend at the waist to snap my head back, wanting to knock him down.

  But he’s grabbing my neck. His fingers press into my throat.

  Did I even move?

  Am I still bent forward?

  Something hard and heavy compresses the crown of my head. I picture a helmet and do my best to duck. But somehow, I end up facing upward, lying on my back.

  Is that the sky? I think it is. I see the moon. The darkness lightens. The moon morphs into a fiery white star that grows bigger with every breath as heat engulfs my skin, as smoke fills my lungs, and as my consciousness goes up in flames.

  NOW

  49

  A phone rings, rousing me awake. I open my eyes. A fuzzy film clouds my vision. I blink hard. My head feels spinny. My eyelids are heavy; I go to rub them, but I’m unable to move my hand. It’s pinned in place.

  I open my eyes wider, able to see: pale yellow walls, something black and boxy … I roll forward to sit up. A vinyl seat is angled across from me. Its side is busted open. Cotton stuffing leaks out, onto the floor.

  What is this?

  Around my wrist.

  A zip tie. I’m attached to a metal handrail, about four feet long, that runs parallel to the floor. My other hand is free.

  Where is my cell phone? I reach into my pocket, but my cell isn’t there. It’s not in the pocket of my jeans either.

  That’s when I remember. It’d jumped from my grip and landed on the ground. I try my other pocket, searching for my spray, my keys, my flashlight …

  Empty.

  My heart pounds.

  A camping lantern casts a soft glow over the space. Piles of junk block the windows: mounds of steel, what appears to be the front end of a car …

  I’m inside the bus.

  Where is Peyton? I shout out her name.

  Meanwhile, a phone continues to ring. The sound is coming from somewhere behind me. I swivel to look, spotting a pay phone propped against the back of the driver’s seat. The phone looks like the one at the park: a big rectangular box, black with silver accents.

  I scoot forward on the ground to try to reach it with my free hand, sliding my zip-tied wrist all the way to the right side of the railing.

  The receiver remains just a few inches out of reach. I tug on the zip tie. The hard plastic digs into my skin, bites at my wristbone. A cracking sound rips from my shoulder.

  I inch out a little more, extending my fingers, holding my breath. Finally, I’m able to knock the receiver off the hook. I snatch it from the floor and place it up to my ear. “Hello?” I answer.

  “Hello, Terra.” A male voice. The same one from outside?

  “Who is this?”

  “Not who, where. Isn’t that the question you should be asking? That is, if you want to find Peyton.”

  “Okay, where?”

  “Peyton’s in a safe place—for now, anyway. If you look carefully, you’ll see that she left you a note.”

  I search around, spotting writing on the wall, behind the handrail. There’s a message scribbled in marker:

  Dear Terra,

  I’m so sorry I lied, but please don’t give up on me. Your friendship is so much more than I deserve, but I need it now more than ever.

  Love always,

  Peyton

  P.S. You’ll always be like a sister to me.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  “Did you find your coins?”

  What coins?

  “At the park,” he says. “The coins in the change return. I hope you took them. You can use those coins to make a phone call or to make a wish, whichever you prefer.”

  “Who is this?”

  “What is it you want more than anything else in the world?” he asks.

  “To find Peyton.” I continue to look around, searching for something I can use to free myself from the rail.

  The interior of the bus has been tagged with initials and insignias of all types: stars, quotations, numbers, drawings. They’re all painted across the seats, along the ceiling, and over the walls.

  “Be honest,” he says. “I know your character, Terra. You can’t fool me.”

  “What do you think I want?”

  “No, no, no,” he sings. “It’s not that easy. You have to work a little too.”

  It’s only then that it hits me. I struggle to reach a little farther, to push down the lever that hangs up the phone—tearing the skin on my thumb in the process. I just need another inch.

  A mix of blood and sweat helps to lubricate my thumb. I use that lubrication to wrench harder and reach farther.

  My skin rips more.

  The knuckle pops.

  But I’m able to touch the lever. I hold it down for three full seconds before reaching for the keypad.

  I dial 9-1-1.

  The call goes through.

  I hear a ring.

  “Hello?” someone answers. A female voice.

  Blood rushes inside my ears. “Is this 9-1-1?”

  “It is,” she says. “What is your emergency?”

  “I’m at Smitherton’s Salvage. I’m trapped inside an abandoned bus.”

  “Smitherton’s Salvage,” she repeats. “Okay, let me check. Hold on just a second. That’s in Pineport, Maine, correct?”

  “Yes,” I burst. “I’m trapped—secured to a railing.”

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  “It’s Terra Smith. I’m from Dayton, Massachusetts.”

  “Okay, Terra. Can you tell me more about this bus?”

  “It’s in the salvage yard, surrounded by junk—car parts, scrap materials. It’s hard to even see the bus.”

  “How about the interior of the bus? Is there writing on the walls—phrases, quotes, pictures, including a ghost on the ceiling?”

  I look up, spotting the ghost; it’s about four feet tall. How does she know? Did Peyton call? Is help already on the way?

  “Do some of the pictures look like illustrations?” she asks. “Like they belong on the pages of storybooks, rather than on the interior walls of a school bus?”

  Wait, what? My skin turns to ice.

  “Does the junk outside the bus trap you in, barricading the windows and the doors?” she asks.

  “It does,” I say.

  “And are you speaking on a pay phone that doesn’t really work?”

  I look at the phone, feeling my heart steel.

  “Terra? Are you still there?”

  “I am.” I nod.

  “And are you speaking on a pay phone?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The same way I know that you’re pretty screwed.” The person laughs.

  My stomach twists. Bile shoots up into my mouth.

  “What do you wish for?” she asks.

  A thirsting wheeze escapes from my throat. This can’t be happening. I must be dreaming.

  “What do you want more than anything else in the world?” she asks.

  I look toward the emergency door, on the other end of the bus. Is it barricaded too? I tug on the zip tie once more, wincing at the burning-cutting sensation. My entire wrist is weeping with blood.

  “Helloooo?” she says. “Why aren’t you answering? Has a cat got your tongue?”

  I shake my head, flashing back to the voice of the guy who took me … that night in my room as he hovered over my bed. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Clara, silly. Don’t you remember me? My name means light. Do you know what your name means?”

  My name?

  “I go to the Fox Run School,” she says before I can attempt an answer. “Do you want to hear about the party I got invited to? It’s
for Sarabeth’s twelfth birthday.”

  My eyes slam shut. My head starts pounding.

  “Just drop three coins into the well and make your wish. Sound good? Just be careful what you wish for because it might very well come true.”

  I take a deep breath. “Where is the well?”

  “It doesn’t exist, remember? It’s all in your head—the well, the book, escaping, me … They’re all just stories you’ve made up to elicit attention. Don’t get me wrong; I like stories too—love them, actually, which is how I knew you’d love this bus with all its words and characters. It’s candy for a storyteller, don’t you think?” She laughs again.

  I hang up. And pull at the zip tie—hard—again and again.

  No go.

  I try some more, grunting, screaming, crying, seething.

  The phone rings again.

  I pick it up. My voice tremors over the words, “What do you want?”

  “What do I wish for, you mean?” a male voice asks. “I thought you’d never ask. To continue playing the role of a hunter, your external antagonist.”

  External?

  “Do you want to play too?”

  The phone clicks.

  My insides shake.

  With trembling fingers, I hang up again and try calling 9-1-1 once more. This time, it just rings and rings. I press zero for the operator.

  Nothing happens.

  No one answers.

  I gaze up at the ghost on the ceiling, then at the group of blue people drawn on one of the windows. Silver words are scribbled just beneath the people like storybook pages, like the water-well book.

  Like the girl on the phone said …

  These words and pictures are the pieces to yet another story—one I’m supposed to make up? One that’s already going on? One that will lead me to Peyton?

  I’m not really sure.

  And I have no choice but to find out.

  NOW

  50

  I continue tugging with my wrist, trying to get the zip tie to break, wrenching the fastened part against the metal railing.

  Nothing works.

  Even my thumb … I move it inward to make my wrist smaller, but I still need another few millimeters to pry my hand out.

  I look around for something fine and sharp, like a needle or a pin, to jam into the lock. But there isn’t anything, at least not that I can see. I check my sweatshirt zipper, but it’s too wide, way too thick. What else can I use?

  I peer back at the phone, wondering how hard it would be to take it apart. Freshman year at Emo, Charley disassembled one, inspired by a dystopian story involving a phone that could call different time periods. But what if I need the phone? If it rings again or I can get it to call out?

  The message from Peyton, scrawled across the wall, glares at me. Where is she now? And what does she mean by not being deserving of my friendship? Is it because she lied to protect her privacy?

  Or something more?

  What if it wasn’t even her on the phone?

  I continue to pull on the zip tie, assuming the guy who took me before is the same person who’s taken me now, because he knows so much—about me, about the water-well story … Unless he learned it from the chat site. Did he? Could he have read the water-well entries somehow, even though I made them locked? Is that why the Jane Anonymous website has been shut down? Because it got compromised?

  Is he the same person who took Peyton before too? What would be the odds of that—of both of us ending up on the Jane Anonymous website, both victims of the same person? How did I even learn about the chat site to begin with?

  A poster at work.

  Did the guy who took me put it there? Was he lurking in the library? Did he leave those books on the return rack?

  I grab the phone receiver and pull the whole unit toward me. Red and yellow wires snake out the back. They feed into a drilled hole in the floor, proving this …

  Here.

  Now.

  Taking Peyton, taking me …

  It’d all been planned, all been rigged: the phone, the bus, this salvage yard …

  There are bolts keeping the phone together, but I have no means of unscrewing them. So, now what?

  Sitting with my back against the wall, I focus on the blue people spray-painted above the windows—two women, eight children. Who are they? What do they represent? Floating above their heads are the words It’s your turn. Tell me a story.

  It reminds me of something Dr. Mary told me once: “If you don’t like the story you’ve been telling yourself, then make a new one. Instead of being the girl who lost her parents, be the survivor of a fire.”

  “But what if I don’t want to be the survivor?”

  “Then start smaller. Be the niece of a woman who loves her. Be the girl who’s almost finished high school. Be the artist whose creations are interesting and unique.”

  “My aunt doesn’t love me.”

  “That’s just another story. An unhealthy one. Why not try to rewrite it?”

  I bite my lip as tears streak down my face, only able to tell one story—that of a stupid girl who’s been abducted once again.

  NOW

  51

  I continue trying to break the zip tie, tugging with my wrist, tearing through the layers of skin. A blister bursts over my wristbone. Blood and sweat seep into my palm. I press on my thumb knuckle as hard as I can to get it to move inward, to make the width of my hand smaller. But doing so only makes the throbbing worse. A burning sensation radiates to my shoulder.

  This isn’t working. I need to try something else.

  I bite the plastic, chewing the locking part: the tiny, raised nub. I get my teeth around it and mash, grind, pull, gnaw, desperate to break through it.

  The plastic has a salty flavor, or maybe that’s just my skin, or the metallic taste of my blood. I tell myself a story: This isn’t a zip tie. It’s the wax candy I used to buy at the corner store when I was little … the tiny bottles that were filled with pretty sugar water the colors of Easter eggs. If I just chew a little longer, a big burst of blueberry liquid will come gushing into my mouth, the latch will come unlocked, and I’ll be able to break free.

  My jaw aches from all its work. My tongue does too; it feels torn up and tired.

  A tired tongue.

  A mouthful of plastic.

  Teeth that clank together but miraculously never chip. I almost wish they would. Pain in exchange for release. Instead, a piece of the plastic breaks free, at last. But it isn’t the right piece—not part of the lock; it’s part of the slack.

  Eventually, I sink down to the floor with my cheek pressed against the hard, bumpy surface, and I tell myself stories inspired by the images all around me: first about the blue family that moved across the country because of a job change, then about the orange bunny who started classes at a new school; and the briefcase-carrying green man, who lost his job and hasn’t told his family.

  I tell myself these stories in between tugging some more, despite my raw and torn-up skin, and stopping for bites, even though my gums have started to bleed.

  How long have I been here?

  A few hours at most?

  I know because it’s still dark. There’s no light peeping in through the gaps of junk outside the windows. And there must be gaps. At least a few. How else would I have been able to tell that the bus was a bus? I was likely brought in through the folding doors. Though, those same doors appear to be barricaded now too. Still, I’m sure it hasn’t been a full day. My mouth hasn’t gone completely dry. My stomach isn’t rumbling. There’s no point in screaming yet. I need to save my voice until morning, when people might be around.

  The salvage yard will eventually open. How many days has it already been closed? How long was Peyton here?

  And how about Garret?

  I told him I was in Pineport. Did he ever get the text with the picture of the salvage yard sign? Did Detective Marshall get it too? Though, she didn’t mention it when I spoke to her on the phone …


  I study the walls, searching for clues. In the window, above the lantern, someone’s drawn two stick-figure people squatted behind a sofa. A word bubble blows out from one of the figures’ mouths; in it are the words You tell me your secret, and I’ll tell you mine. It’s the same line of dialogue as in the water-well book—when William first met Clara …

  Below that drawing is another one—a campfire scene. A stick-figure girl stands over the fire. Surrounding her are tall evergreen trees. It’s labeled Climax Scene.

  Another picture shows the same girl huddled up in a corner with a word bubble that says, Please, Terra, don’t give up on me. I blink hard. Am I imagining the words? Is the stick-figure girl supposed to be Peyton?

  Is she in the woods now?

  Is she by a campfire?

  The phone rings again, making my insides jump. I scurry across the floor to answer it, moving a little too fast, reaching a little too far. The thumb of the zip-tied hand dislocates. My fingers won’t move, and I let out a catlike whine.

  Still, I stretch with my other hand to grab the receiver.

  Someone’s crying on the other end of the phone—a female voice.

  “Peyton?”

  The phone clicks off.

  I slide back, across the floor. My hand continues to throb; the wrist pulsates. I bite at the zip tie again, finally managing to mangle the locking-fastening piece. At the same moment, an idea hits.

  I reach up the back of my shirt and fumble with the hook of my bra. It takes several tries before I’m able to get it unfastened. I unloop the strap from my untied hand and pull part of the bra out the neck of my T-shirt. The underwire forms a solid tunnel. I bite the fabric open—one quick tear—and pull the underwire out.

  It’s hard and thin, long and narrow. Exactly what I need. I press the end into the latch, and jiggle it up and down, back and forth.

  At last, something in the zip tie releases.

  The lock loosens.

  I feel a click.