Sweetly

by Jackson Pearce

  “So what happened?”

  I turn to him and exhale. “I had my cards read.”

  “By Miss Nikki,” Samuel says, nodding. He shoves his hands into his pockets and sways slightly.

  “Yes. And she told me that me and the other eight girls and Naida and my sister… we’re the same. We’re mirrors of the same person. And we have the same destiny.”

  Samuel raises his eyebrows. “Miss Nikki told you that?”

  “The cards did. I mean… that was my question. I wanted to know why they disappeared and why I didn’t. I thought either they were special or I was. But she said we’re mirrors, and I have to make a different choice than they did to break free.” The bullhorn guy gives a final warning to sit down. “Is that stupid, though? To think I’m destined to be like my sister because of a tarot card reader at a Fourth of July party?” I want him to lie to me so badly.

  But that’s not how Samuel Reynolds works. He shakes his head and lowers his voice. “She’s been reading cards a long time. People here believe her; tourists don’t always.”

  “I know,” I mumble, looking away when I catch a glimpse of Sophia leaning in to kiss my brother. I should warn Ansel. Warn him about what, though? That she’s keeping secrets? That she’s hurting? That something is wrong, and I can’t tell if it’s with her or with Live Oak or with witches?

  “What’s the choice, then?”

  “What?”

  Samuel looks at the sky. “You have to make a choice. What is it?”

  How do I make a choice when I don’t even know what I’m choosing between?

  You know. You’ve always known. Vanishing or not.

  So simple, so easy, yet so complicated at the same time. But I know what I choose. I’m making a choice not only for myself but for all the girls sitting below, the eight fading girls of Live Oak, my sister, Sophia’s sister, Sophia herself.

  I will not vanish. And I will not let anyone else vanish either. I know how to use a gun. I know what the witch is. I know what to do to kill it. I can’t keep being afraid, can’t keep reliving that moment in the forest with my sister. I can’t sit here with a gun, waiting for the witch to find me.

  I just… can’t. I can’t be the scared little girl. I won’t.

  The lights flick off, leaving us in moonlight. I turn to Samuel, find his eyes as the crowd below hushes in anticipation. “My sister’s name is Abigail.”

  His eyes widen; he inhales. “Abigail?”

  “We called her Abby,” I whisper. “And I don’t want to pretend anymore that she wasn’t real. I don’t want her to disappear, or Naida, or Layla, or the rest of them. I want to help.”

  Samuel’s green eyes flick to mine just as there’s a popping noise from the other side of the square—the first of a few fireworks shooting toward the sky. “I’ll help you,” he says as the fireworks erupt into a shower of gold sparkles and the speaker system gears back up. Patriotic music blasts over the square; I take a few steps forward to stand beside Samuel and watch the spray of light above our heads.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Samuel leads me back down the ladder and bids me a short good-bye. I feed Sophia and Ansel a line about sitting down near Miss Zuelika’s tent to avoid getting caught in the blackout; I’m not sure if they don’t question it because it’s a good story or if they don’t question it because it allowed them alone time.

  It’s well past my definition of late by the time we’ve packed up and gotten everything back to the chocolatier. I ignore the feeling in my chest, the gnawing hurt that comes when I look at Sophia as we unpack the car. When I see her, I think of Naida, of all Sophia’s secrets, of the eight Live Oak girls. I think of Abigail.

  I’m too exhausted to actually analyze it any longer; images of the missing girls just rotate around my mind. They continue long into my sleep—in fact, when I wake up, I can’t tell the difference between my last few hours of unloading and my first few of dreaming. Same images, same fears.

  I can’t stay in bed any longer. I have to get my mind off Naida, how we’re the same… I look at the clock in my room. I’ve had only a few hours of sleep, but it’ll do. Not surprisingly, Sophia’s door is still shut, but Ansel seems to be awake; the couch-bed is in disarray. He’s standing by the kitchen’s screen door sipping on coffee when I come in.

  “Wow,” he says. “You’re up early.”

  “So are you,” I note. I don’t like coffee, but I want the caffeine, so I pour myself a cup. As I head to the fridge to load it up with milk, he nods to the field outside. It’s packed with deer grazing in the early morning mist, shooting their heads up to eye the chocolatier suspiciously when I shut the noisy fridge door.

  I lean on the opposite side of the door and watch them. For as hot as South Carolina is in the afternoon, it’s almost chilly in the morning.

  “I’m worried about Sophia,” Ansel says in a low voice. I raise my eyebrows and take a deep breath. Something washes over me—relief? Camaraderie? He’s worked it out; he knows Sophia is keeping secrets, that something isn’t right, no matter how beautiful and wonderful she is. It’s not just Samuel and me—it’s Ansel too.

  “I’m worried about her too,” I say almost breathlessly.

  “Really?” Ansel says, and he looks as relieved as I do.

  “Yes. For a while now,” I say, stepping closer to him.

  Ansel nods and continues. “She misses Naida and her dad. And then all the stress about the chocolate festival… people blaming her…” he says, avoiding my eyes.

  The balloon in my chest deflates and I bite my lip. My brother and I aren’t of the same mind after all.

  “Anyway,” he continues gruffly as he tops off his coffee, “I don’t really worry about anything here, weirdly enough, but this thing with Sophia has started to get on me. I was thinking she needs a break. I’ve been trying to convince her to take a day to herself, but she won’t listen to me. I thought maybe she’d listen to you.”

  “Over you? I doubt it.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Sophia talks about you like you hang the moon in the sky. She’s always talking about how she needs you, how she’s worried you’re going to leave. She’ll listen to you.”

  I hang the moon in the sky. Sophia thinks that of me, yet I know she’s hiding dark secrets from the world, from Ansel, from Live Oak. Why do I feel as if I’m betraying her by knowing at least a fraction of the truth? Guilt stalls me for a moment, so I buy myself time by turning to pull two eggs from the refrigerator.

  “What did you have in mind?” I ask as the fridge door drifts shut.

  “Like a girls’ day or something. Nails and hair,” he suggests, waving a spoon at me before swishing it around in his cup.

  “What is this, the 1950s?” I say, rolling my eyes. “But fine. Maybe later this week?”

  “That sounds good. And then… I was thinking…” He looks down again, as though he’s afraid to say whatever it is he wants to. I wait. “I was thinking,” he finally continues, “that maybe after the festival, we can leave.”

  “You and me?” I ask, and it’s only a beat after speaking that my mind jumps to Samuel. What about him, how can I leave—

  “You, me, and Sophia. I mean, if we could convince her to. It’s just that leaving Washington was so good for you; I was thinking that maybe it’d be good for Sophia to leave Live Oak. This place is dying anyway.”

  I inhale, calm the worries that are leaping up inside me. There’s plenty of time to deal with the prospect of leaving.

  “Maybe. Let’s get through the week first?” I ask my brother.

  “What’s going on this week?” a voice breaks toward us from the storefront. Sophia emerges through the saloon doors, looking exhausted. “Oh, thank god, coffee. Gretchen, would you be opposed to injecting it straight into my veins?”

  “Not if you do me a favor,” I say as Ansel nods emphatically at me from over Sophia’s shoulder. Sophia is normal, casual. Of course she is. She doesn’t know about the card reading.

/>   “Oh yeah? I have to inject it into yours first?” she teases.

  “Nope. I was thinking,” I say, fingering the colored tips of my hair, “I need to go get my hair cut—or rather, get this cut out. You know, so I don’t look like Skittles for the festival. Want to come with me?”

  “Me? I usually just cut my own…” She studies the ends of my hair for a moment. “If you want to go, though, I’ll pay for it.”

  “Wow—my hair looks that bad?” I ask, pretending to be offended. “Come on, we’ll go together. It’ll be fun.”

  Sophia laughs. “When were you thinking of going?”

  “I don’t know—this coming week sometime?”

  “I haven’t been to Kool Kutz in years. But…” She pauses and looks at me intently. “Okay. I’ll go. Just… maybe late in the day? So it won’t be as busy?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. “It’ll be fun. Girls’ day out.”

  “Okay, Gretchen, hair is one thing, but if you start suggesting we film a shopping montage, this ‘girls’ day’ will come to an abrupt end,” she jokes, and I laugh.

  Thank you, Ansel mouths over her shoulder. I shrug. Truth is, he didn’t have to ask me to hang out with Sophia. Because despite everything, I still like her. I still want her to like me.

  She’s still the first real friend I’ve ever had who hasn’t disappeared.

  “By the way,” Sophia says through a yawn, “I meant to continue the conversation with you yesterday after I talked to Sara about her dress—do you have anything to wear to the chocolate festival?”

  I shiver, thinking about what Layla was wearing, what the other girls were wearing, but try to appear casual when I shake my head.

  “I was thinking you could borrow a dress from me, if you want,” Sophia offers.

  “That works.”

  “In fact… come on,” Sophia says, and walks out of the kitchen, toward her bedroom. I grab my coffee and follow, unsure what else to do. By the time I catch up with Sophia, she’s reaching into the back of her thin closet that’s packed with clothes hangers.

  “I have this one that’s a little too small for me. I was thinking it might look good on you,” she says. I set my mug down on her nightstand and sit on the bed, painfully aware of how Naida’s photo might still be beneath me. “Here it is.”

  Sophia yanks out a sundress that’s a washed-out red with a few ruffles around the skirt. It’s very much her style, and I can tell by looking at it that I won’t be able to fill it out the way Sophia can. But I tug off my pajamas and try nonetheless. Sophia zips me up and opens her closet door wide, revealing a long mirror on the inside.

  I look ridiculous. The dress is hanging off me, as though I’m a little girl playing dress-up. Sophia giggles and I can’t help but join her.

  “I mean, could we take it in or anything?” I ask, pointing to the mass of fabric hanging around my chest.

  “Do you sew? Because I’ve never sewn anything in my life,” Sophia says, uselessly attempting to tighten the dress via the straps.

  “I don’t sew. Maybe we could pin it or something…” I suggest.

  “Maybe…” Sophia says, but it’s soon very clear that no amount of pinning will make it fit. “We could always go buy you something in Lake City,” she offers.

  “I don’t want you to have to pay for that,” I argue. “Do you have anything else that might work?”

  “I…” Sophia gazes at her closet for a long time, then sighs. “I think so. Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

  Sophia disappears, and I rise, then twirl around in the dress, rolling my eyes at the way it fits. At least I could hold a gun with it—the straps allow for plenty of motion. A flitter of movement catches my eye out the window. I peer through the translucent curtains and see Sophia unwinding the chain around the shed handles. She disappears inside for a moment, and when she emerges, she’s holding a red dress with flowers on it. She holds it delicately, as if it’s either horrible or precious. The screen door slams shut, and I hear her footsteps on the stairs.

  “Maybe this one will work?” she says, and she smiles. The expression doesn’t reach her eyes, and I know why.

  That’s Naida’s dress. I’m sure of it.

  I don’t want to put it on—I really, really don’t want to put it on. I nod weakly, unsure what to do. Admit I know about Naida? Refuse to wear something that was hers?

  “Where’d it come from?” I ask.

  Sophia exhales and puts the dress on the bed. “It was mine when I was younger.” The lie would have worked if I didn’t know about Naida, I suppose. As far as Sophia is aware, I don’t—and she clearly isn’t planning to tell me about her sister anytime soon. “Go ahead. Try it on.”

  I nod, trying not to move too stiffly, and remove Sophia’s dress. The new red one smells like summer from years of sitting in the shed. I cringe as I pull it over my head and the material falls down around me.

  It fits me. Perfectly, almost, as though it’s always belonged to me. I stare at myself in the mirror, unable to move. Of course it fits me. Naida and I are the same. I try to imagine the girl in the reflection with blue hair and Sophia’s eyes, but it frightens me and I finally look away.

  “That one is great,” Sophia says when I find her gaze. She’s trying to swallow the quiver in her voice, but it doesn’t work. “It fits you.”

  “Are you sure?” I say, and although I’m not clear on what exactly it is I’m asking, I know I’m seeking answers beyond the dress.

  Sophia hesitates, and finally a tear slips through her eyes. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just that you look really pretty. I’m glad you’re here.” Before I can speak, she swoops forward and hugs me. Her heart is racing, and I can tell she’s crying pretty hard even though she’s managing to keep her tears silent.

  I don’t understand her. I don’t understand her secrets. I don’t understand the festival.

  And when Sophia hurries downstairs to check on something in the fridge, I realize I won’t be able to lift a gun if I wear Naida Kelly’s party dress.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  What’s that?” I ask.

  “One of the few expensive guns I haven’t pawned,” Samuel confesses, looking at it a little sadly. “I’ve just got the three rifles and this one now.”

  “So it’s a… superspecial gun?” I tease, raising my eyebrows as I sit down in the clover beside him. I spin the tips of my fingers around the soft leaves. The night on the rooftop seems years ago instead of three days ago, emphasized by the space between us.

  “Shotgun.” He glances up as he corrects me—his eyes are the same color as the clover stems. “You’ve seen it in movies—see the pump?” He grabs my hand and, before I can react, puts it on a wooden part under the barrel of the gun. He wraps his fingers around my palm and slides the piece forward and backward, creating a clicking sound that echoes around the field.

  “Right,” I say, though to be honest I’m more astounded by Samuel’s calloused hand over mine than I am at the gun. A moment goes by, a long moment, and then Samuel inhales sharply and releases my palm.

  “Anyway,” he says aloud, so quickly that I know he must have been surprised at himself as well. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a box of red plastic cylinders. “I thought you might as well give it a try. Maybe you’ll like it better than the rifles. It has a different kind of ammo; it sprays tiny BBs.”

  “Sure.” I stand up and brush off the back of my legs as thunder rolls in the distance.

  “It’s not supposed to rain for another few hours.” Samuel nods toward the sky.

  “I think you’ve been lied to,” I answer, staring into the clouds. I lower my eyes back to his.

  “Here,” Samuel says. “So you drop the shell into this little section, like this… and then you have to pump it. And that loads it. Safety is right above the trigger, the little bar that slides back and forth.”

  I take the gun from Samuel, readying it at my shoulder. “This right?”

  “Almost. It’s a little
different; you need to slide your right hand. No, wait, your other right. Hang on,” he says, and swoops in behind me. He puts his arms around my shoulders, sliding my hands accordingly. But all I can focus on is the fresh leaf scent coming from his skin.

  Snap out of it, Gretchen! I shout at myself. This is Samuel.

  “There. That’s it. It’ll kick a little, by the way,” Samuel says quietly, then steps away. I wiggle my shoulders to slide the straps of my shirt up and take aim. I inhale slowly as I pull the trigger.

  The gun fires, a bright, sharp sound that’s louder than the rifles. But I barely notice the noise because the shotgun recoils. It slams into my shoulder so unexpectedly that tears spring to my eyes. I feel blood building up beneath the skin, hot and painful, and scarcely have time to flip the safety on before dropping the gun to the ground and grabbing my shoulder in pain.

  “You could have warned me,” I say through gritted teeth, waiting until my tears have faded to raise my head.

  “I said it would kick!” Samuel says, taking long, strong strides back toward me, a new sort of concern in his voice. He looks from the gun to me in surprise.

  “Clearly we define ‘a little’ differently,” I snap back, pressing my lips together. Come on, Gretchen, get over it. I can feel my shoulder starting to bruise but ignore it. The last thing I want is for Samuel to think I can’t handle something.

  “Sorry. I guess you aren’t wearing much of a shirt for protection,” he muses, the beginning of a laugh fading when I glare at him. “I can give you mine, if you want,” he says, motioning toward his T-shirt.

  “No,” I say quickly, before I can reconsider. “No, let me try again.”

  “Okay, okay—hang on, though,” he says, and tugs a navy handkerchief out of his back pocket. He folds it messily, then motions me to come close to him. He tucks his hand into the strap of my shirt and settles the handkerchief against the soft part of my shoulder; I try to ignore the trembling I feel when his fingers brush against my collarbone, the warmth that rushes to where his skin touches mine. Samuel clears his throat and steps away, nodding toward the gun.