Sweetly

by Jackson Pearce

  “Ansel—”

  “Gretchen, please. She can’t handle this.” He reaches into the pocket of his pair of jeans on the floor, grabs his keys; he tosses them to me so swiftly that I barely catch them. “Take my car and go.”

  I exhale. Nod. Turn sharply, unsure what else I can do. I feel as though this is a dream—someone else is running my body; this isn’t really happening.

  “Gretchen?” Ansel calls after me. I don’t mean to, but I see Sophia’s eyes. She still wants me to stay, so badly that she doesn’t even seem able to form the words to beg me again. Ansel continues, and his voice sounds the way it used to, back when he was my only rock. Serious, protective, soft. “Gretchen, listen to me. Just in case this is all… Just stay inside the night of the festival. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” I say immediately.

  I force myself to turn around, to walk to my bedroom, Naida’s bedroom, Sophia’s bedroom, what would have been Lorelei’s bedroom. I throw clothes and books into my suitcase hastily, driven by tears and hopelessness. Luxe barks and drops a tennis ball at my feet. I kiss him on the head just before yanking my suitcase out the door. I let it fall down the stairs—I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry it.

  I throw my things into the back of the Jeep and urge it out of the driveway, swerving a little. Keep moving forward, keep driving, keep going. If I look back, if I think about what just happened, I won’t be able to stop crying.

  I park the Jeep next to Samuel’s motorcycle and leap from the driver’s seat, then sprint through Ms. Judy’s dew-laden grass. Samuel opens the door when I reach the halfway mark, a confused but happy expression on his face—but when he sees my tears, his expression falls. He takes a single step toward me, but in that amount of time I’ve closed the space between us—I collapse into him, and he wraps his arms around me, lifting me up off the ground.

  And then, finally, I really cry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Waking up in Samuel’s arms is comforting; I ignore the realization that the chocolate festival is this evening and instead push myself closer to him, kiss his chest before snaking out from under his arm while he’s still sleeping. I pull on fresh clothes, open the front door, and inhale the fresh morning scent, dew and grass and hay smells. The sun is barely up, and a light mist is settled over everything. It makes the world look beautiful, innocent. It makes everything look safe, as though maybe last night were a bad dream.

  But it wasn’t. A helpless feeling, rooted somewhere near my stomach, grows and pushes into my heart. I’ve failed. I couldn’t save Sophia, I’ve been thrown out, and I have no plan for saving the other Live Oak girls tonight—if it can even be done. I wrap my arms around my legs and watch the sky for a few moments. I don’t know what to do. I’m finally not the scared little girl, and I’m just as helpless as if I were.

  I have to move. I can’t just sit here and dwell—I need something to occupy my mind. I rise and cross the lawn, get into Ansel’s Jeep, and drive toward Judy’s diner. Live Oak is already busy by its own standards, with all the old townspeople out watering flowers or going for walks. I cut through the center of town and see Judy’s on the horizon.

  Wait. As I slow down by the Confederate soldier statue, I see an old man with a cane hobbling up the steps to a crumbling brick storefront with arched windows and two flags—one Confederate, one American—hanging out front. A hand-painted sign in the window reads SEE GEN. ROBERT E. LEE’S RIDING BOOTS HERE! I wanted something to occupy my mind, didn’t I?

  I slow the car and pull it to the side of the street just as the old man gets the door open. He looks over his shoulder at me and gives me a crooked smile—I recognize him from the Fourth of July block party, the man with the moonshine. Sara’s grandfather.

  “Here to learn about the general?” he asks.

  I hesitate. “I guess I am,” I say, then smile back and hurry up the steps behind him.

  The old man enters the museum first, turning to get the keys out of the lock as I walk toward the center of the room. The museum has high ceilings that allow sunlight to pour in but is only one floor. Straight ahead is a monstrous portrait of Robert E. Lee in his uniform—the painting is so large that it takes up most of the wall space, and Lee’s bluish eyes give me a hard stare. The other walls are decorated in similar memorabilia—portraits, some that look torn out of magazines or calendars, and one large, somewhat poor painting of Lee mounted on a sorrel horse.

  “Come on, over here,” the old man says, hustling past me. He smells like medicine and aftershave, so powerful that it almost makes my eyes water. I follow him toward the back corner of the museum, where there’s a glass countertop display not unlike Sophia’s. The old man walks around it, opens his mouth to speak, but then cuts himself off with a sharp breath. He ducks behind the counter, grabs some cleaner and polishes the glass, and finally meets my eyes with his faded blue ones.

  “These,” he says, pointing into the case, “are the riding boots of one of the greatest Americans to ever live, General Robert Edward Lee. Commander of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia during the War of Northern Aggression. Lincoln himself wanted the general to lead the Union Army, you know, but Lee wouldn’t abandon Virginia. He wouldn’t fight against his homeland. That’s courage, young lady—that’s real courage right there.”

  I kneel down to peer inside the case. They just look like boots—worn over-the-knee black boots with scuffed toes and heels. There’s a tiny picture on top of the case of Lee wearing them. When I look back up at the old man, he’s beaming, and I can’t help but grin. All Live Oak’s signs, all the banners, all the pride—all over a pair of boots.

  “Over here,” he says, motioning to another case, “we’ve got the horseshoes of one of his second most famous horses, Lucy Long.”

  I’m just looking down into a case below the painting of the sorrel horse—Lucy Long, apparently—when a shadow appears in the open door. It’s a teenage boy, pimply faced and with headphones jammed into his ears. His parents are behind him, and they file into the museum one by one.

  “Excuse me,” the mother—a plump woman wearing too much makeup—says to the old man. “We’re trying to find the interstate? We’ve been lost in the country for an hour now.”

  “You’re practically there—when you see Judy’s, you’ll see the on-ramp. But how about you take a moment, since you’re here, and learn a piece about the great General Lee?” the old man says. He’s moved closer to them and ushers them forward even though the family clearly wants to sprint for the door. The husband and wife exchange wary glances while the boy rolls his eyes and turns his music up loud enough that I can hear it from across the room.

  I put my hands into my pockets and turn, looking at all the paintings again. It’s not so much that they’re Robert E. Lee—I barely know a thing about him—but rather that they, in some way, are Live Oak. All this history, all this past that they’re clinging to, even while the town falls apart around them. Even while the first sign of Live Oak’s end days prepares for another nail in the coffin of this town.

  “Take the damn things outta your ears, boy, and come learn about history,” the old man tells the teenager, who sighs but yanks the headphones out. He slouches over to the glass case and looks in, pressing his hands against the glass and leaving fingerprints on the surface. The old man begins his spiel about Lee, and I turn to go—I’ve got to get to Judy’s and back, preferably before Samuel wakes up.

  “How do you know these were his?” I hear the boy ask.

  “Well, there’s a photo right there,” the old man answers.

  “Of him in some riding boots. He was a freakin’ general. He probably had a million pairs. How do you know these aren’t just fakes?”

  I wait in the doorway for the answer, but the old man just makes a few defeated sounds, starts a few sentences, and then falls silent. I turn around to see the boy shaking his head and jamming his headphones back into his ears. The family files past me, gets into a minivan full
of laundry baskets and suitcases parked behind Ansel’s Jeep, and wheels away toward the interstate.

  I look back inside the museum to see the old man hauling out the cleaner again, polishing away the prints the boy left on the glass. He shakes his head at me and puts the cleaner down, then proceeds to begin setting out a pencil holder full of tiny Confederate flags and a few T-shirts on the counter.

  “You can’t trust outsiders, you know,” he says, and my stomach twists at the thought that the old man thinks I’m like that boy. “They’re always looking to turn you about. Mess with your head. Make you stop believing the things you know to be true.” The old man looks lovingly up at the massive painting of Lee, then back to me, tipping his head in my direction. “Us Live Oakers gotta stick together. Gotta stand up for one another. People are the only thing holding this place together, so every person is precious.”

  “Us Live Oakers.” I am not like that boy.

  And he’s right. People are the only thing holding this place—holding any place—together. It doesn’t matter if those are really Lee’s riding boots or if Sophia is the first sign of Live Oak’s end days. They’re both a part of me now, a part of the place where I became a new version of myself, where I faced the witch, where I wasn’t afraid. Live Oak’s broken and troubled but still holding on, still fighting. I can’t abandon it—or anyone in it—no matter what kind of promises I’ve made, no matter what kind of risks I’ll have to take. I’m not a scared little girl anymore—and I haven’t been for a while.

  I smile at the old man and wave good-bye; he responds by starting up an old tape player that fills the room with a quiet narrative about Lee’s life.

  By the time I make it to Judy’s and back to the house, it’s been at least an hour. Samuel must have been reaching for the front door right when I open it—I nearly run into him.

  “Are you okay?” he asks immediately, glancing at the bag in my hand.

  “I’m fine,” I answer, pulling him back into the house and tapping the door shut with my foot. “I was getting us breakfast.” I set the bag of food down on the floor and turn to him.

  “Oh. Right,” Samuel says, shaking his head as if he’s trying to toss darker thoughts away. “I thought maybe… maybe you left.”

  “No,” I say, and put my arms around the back of his neck. “But I went and saw Robert E. Lee’s riding boots.”

  “Impressive?”

  I pause, then nod.

  “Learn anything about him?”

  I smile a little. “I learned that I have to break a promise to my brother, which I feel bad about.” Poor Ansel. He’s only trying to keep me safe. He’s always tried to keep me safe. But it’s time I repay him.

  “What promise?” Samuel asks.

  “I told him I’d stay inside tonight. But I have to go to the festival.”

  Samuel steps back and meets my eyes. “Why? You don’t have to go to save the eleven. We can set up on the roads going out of Live Oak, pick off the wolves there.”

  “That’ll save the eleven, maybe,” I admit. “But it won’t save Sophia. And it won’t get me any answers. I still won’t know why some of them are special. You won’t know why Layla and Naida are gone but other girls are still here. We have to help them, and I have to know the truth.”

  Samuel and I look at each other a long time. I want to say so much, but I’m not sure any of it would make sense. Naida, Sophia, me—there’s an answer I still don’t have, and while I don’t entirely know what the question is, I know it has nothing to do with the roads out of Live Oak. I might be able to break free of the wolves, of my destiny, of Naida’s destiny, but I won’t do it if it means abandoning someone else to the monsters. Abigail and Sophia both deserve better from me.

  “I know,” Samuel says in a low voice, answering my unspoken words. “Okay, we’ll go. Just tell me what you need me to do, Gretchen. You lead, I’ll follow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  At sunset, I put on Naida’s dress, wrinkled from being shoved into the bottom of my suitcase. It seems as if I should wear it, though—and besides, the red flowery fabric will probably help me blend in at the festival. I rip the sleeves so I can hold a gun easier, practice aiming, skip matching sandals in favor of tennis shoes I can run in.

  I am still nervous. Still scared. I just don’t care anymore—I can’t allow myself to care anymore.

  We are mirror images, but we are not the same. A reflection is you but reversed, after all. We are not the same. I chant this to myself over and over, trying to build up my courage. It works—it becomes something of a battle cry as I check my rifle, load my pockets with spare rounds, affix Naida’s face in my mind.

  We are not the same.

  The festival starts at seven, but Samuel and I don’t leave till later—after eight o’clock. There’s no way we’d be able to slip in unnoticed if we arrived on time. I wrap my arms around Samuel’s chest and bury my face against his neck as we zip through town. Most of the remaining stores are long closed, though we get a few strange looks from old people sitting on their porches, gabbing away as they sip sweet tea or beer.

  Samuel stops his bike just a hundred or so yards from Sophia’s house. He climbs off, then helps me. We both have rifles on us, and we pause to pack our pockets with extra handfuls of shells.

  “Where to, fearless leader?” Samuel says, squeezing my shoulder gently as I slide the rifle strap over my chest.

  I inhale. No turning back now. I have to warn them. I can’t let them vanish like Abigail. “This way,” I say, and take the first step toward the chocolatier.

  The noise grows as we close in on Sophia’s place. A dull hum of conversation quickly morphs into a roar. There’s music, acoustic guitar of some sort, and laughter that’s bright and cheery, along with a few lower, male voices. When the house finally comes into view, it appears to glow from the strings of paper lanterns that illuminate the backyard. Every downstairs light is on, and cars are parked throughout the front yard and even down the street.

  Strangely, though, no one is in sight—everyone is in the field out back, leaving the front deserted. We slink through the yard, using trees and cars for cover. The front door and storefront are darkened, but the kitchen is brightly lit.

  Together we tiptoe up the porch steps, ducked down low. I crack open the front door to the chocolatier and peer around it. No one, of course. We cut across the storefront, toward the display cases. I pause, leaning against them. It doesn’t sound as though anyone is in the kitchen. Samuel hunches down beside me, looking uncertain.

  The kitchen’s screen door opens, then slams shut. Footsteps—Sophia’s, I presume—pad across the kitchen hurriedly. I try to analyze where she is—the refrigerator, I think, now over by the oven. I rise, ready to confront her, to beg her, to plead with her again. To call her my sister and hope it reaches past her fear to her heart.

  The screen door opens again, slams again. Ansel, I think as I hear heavy booted footsteps on the hardwood. I’m about to signal Samuel to move, to step in and surprise them, when the second person speaks.

  “I’m disappointed, Miss Kelly,” a sly, low voice says, barely a hiss over the sound of the party outside.

  That isn’t Ansel.

  My eyes widen in confusion, and I dare to look up and through the glass. The saloon doors keep me from seeing faces, but I can see torsos and legs through the rows of candies in the case. The man is close to Sophia, very close, and she wrings her hands behind her back and steps away from him. She’s trembling.

  Who is it? Samuel mouths at me. I shake my head—I’ve never heard this voice before in my life.

  “I’m sorry. I know… I…” Sophia begins. Her voice sounds as though she’s on the verge of tears.

  “You don’t have eleven,” the man says, taking an intrusive step toward Sophia. She backs up into the counter and grasps the skirt of the pink party dress she’s wearing.

  “I know,” Sophia pleads. “But there just aren’t eleven this year—one of the gir
ls didn’t show up. Look out there—there are plenty of seventeen-year-olds! I can make up for it next year!”

  “Be quiet,” the man says. I can see his hand—his fingers ripple and transform to claws, then turn back.

  “He’s a Fenris,” Samuel whispers almost silently. I meet his eyes—they’re livid, burning.

  “B-but… S-Sophia…” I stammer, trying to make sense of whatever it is that’s going on. Nothing is adding up.

  Or worse yet, everything is adding up, however slowly. Sophia doesn’t only know about the wolves, know about the shells, know about what’s happening to the Live Oak girls. Sophia knows the wolves. She’s talking to them. She’s… My mind fumbles, trying to find a word, trying to work out what she could be to the monsters. Worse—what they could be to her. Not Sophia, I think Not the girl who is like a sister, the girl my brother loves, the girl whom I wanted to be just like.

  No. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding, fists clenched as my mind swirls, watching her talk to a killer.

  “Please,” Sophia says, voice cracking. “Please—”

  “You’d better work this out,” the man—no, not a man, a wolf—says, and then storms out the screen door. It slams shut, and Sophia crumples to the floor. I see her face for only a moment, but it’s racked with grief, guilt, sorrow. Her mouth is twisted in a silent wail, and her eyes are squeezed shut. I hear her choke down a few sobs, and then she rises. She breathes deeply, brushes down her skirt, and clears her throat.

  “Sophia?” Ansel’s voice sounds through the other side of the screen door.

  “Yeah?” Sophia answers, voice brighter than I know she feels. She sniffs away the last of her tears, an old pro at some deception I still don’t understand.

  “There aren’t any more hazelnut truffles. Did you have any extras? People are asking for them.”

  Sophia laughs cheerily, and I’m amazed that she’s able to do so given the emotions I just saw her go through. “I’ve got some more in the storefront. Not a lot, though! Tell them to slow down!” she teases. Ansel laughs, the sound fading away as he rejoins the party.