The Missing Season

by Gillian French

  He shrugs. “Good a place as any.”

  “Plenty better.”

  “Not if you want some space. This whole marsh is a preserve. Over three hundred acres.”

  “Just you, the egrets, and Dabney Kirk’s severed head.” I’m not imagining how his eyes light up, smile creeping back.

  “You know about that?”

  “Your buddy—El Chupapudding—made sure I found out today.”

  Kincaid laughs, rocking back on his heels. “Damn, I missed pudding day? They didn’t have the Friday French bread pizza, too, did they? That’s, like, all wet?”

  “Today’s Tuesday.”

  He considers this, thoughtful again. “They brought dogs in. Nobody could find her. How far could a head really roll?”

  “Now there’s a PSAT question. If a logging truck is traveling southeast at forty-five miles per hour, and a head is traveling northwest . . .” He looks back, maybe amused, maybe tolerant, not giving me much. Not letting me in on the joke. Again. “You don’t think it was an accident.”

  “I think he took her with him. I think Dabney Kirk is hanging in the Mumbler’s trophy room right now. He’s got armchair, fireplace, Dabney’s head.”

  I watch him, biting the inside of my cheek, fists tucked inside my sleeves. “You can stop now. Okay? I’m sufficiently pranked.” Nothing. “I’m new, so you guys think you need to break me in or something, right? But you’re never going to sell me on this boogeyman stuff.”

  He straightens, shoulders his bag, hooks his fingers under his board’s truck. “That’s what you think? That I’m being, like, mean to you?” He considers the concept before shaking his head, totally unoffended. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Then . . . ?” I lift my shoulders.

  “Did you google them? Ricky, Dabney, Gavin?”

  “Gavin OD’d.”

  “Nobody knows that. He’d disappeared last October. They just found his body two weeks ago. There wasn’t much left.” He watches as I reach for my phone. “Won’t work out here. It’s a dead spot.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Later. Look it up. You’ll see.”

  “I’ll be reading later.” I was thinking out loud, but Kincaid looks a question. “A Clockwork Orange. For Hyde’s class.”

  “Nice. ‘Duality is the ultimate reality.’”

  “What?”

  “Anthony Burgess. He said that. Man’s a visionary.” I nod, hoping it doesn’t show that I didn’t recognize the author’s name. Better dig myself a hole and turn some serious pages before Hyde drops the next quiz. “I can take you to the railroad bridge sometime.”

  I grab on to that I—not we—and don’t let go. “What’s out there?”

  He smiles, slings his hand back to hang the board over his shoulder. “Make a believer out of you.” He ambles down the trail in the direction of town, passing beneath the tree canopy, his coat becoming shadow, his hair birch bark. I don’t move, thinking this is the end, he’ll fade into nonexistence again, but his voice carries: “You coming?”

  We don’t walk together, but fall just short of it, Kincaid knowing the way, me moving at my own pace, not sure what this is, us together. Trying to gauge if he’s at all nervous to be alone with me, if he even remembers that I’m here.

  As he walks, he slides his hand over tree trunks, touchstones somehow confirming that we’re following his invisible path. We’ve lost the trail, or so it seems. Even when we come out on a footpath, we don’t stay on it, instead crunching off into brush and brambles, my clothes snagging on branches heavy with berries so shiny and red they must be poisonous. A small maple leaf, burnished half-gold, half-green, falls into his hair and snags. I like how it looks, so I leave it.

  Skate park.

  No Sage or Bree. I watch Kincaid hit the concrete on his board and coast over to run the circuit with the others. Not as big a crowd as last night, but something tells me it’ll grow as darkness falls and parents come home from work, flushing kids out into the neighborhood for breathing room.

  I snag an empty bench, pulling out my phone to see if I’ve got bars. Over at the playground, a weird whining sound comes from the play tunnel, where a few stoners block either end, leaning and smoking and giving each other shit.

  Ricky, Dabney, Gavin. Their names googled with “Pender” bring up a flurry of articles, photos hinting at horror: a roadside ditch with rescue vehicles parked up and down it, first responders’ faces bleached paper white in camera flash. The most recent update on Gavin Cotswold is from last week, a brief squib from the local paper accompanied by a selfie of a skinny dark-haired boy, smirking, eyes heavy-lidded. After a year of family and police believing he’d run away from home, his skeleton was discovered by a partridge hunter in the woods just over the Derby town line. Skeletal trauma tests are currently being run to determine cause of death.

  I’m doubled over, staring at an endlessly buffering WABI-TV video clip when Landon and Ivy come up, arm in arm.

  We nod. They part, Landon taking off for the ramps on a Santa Cruz board, Ivy sitting cross-legged on the pavement with a leather tote bag that turns out to hold her knitting. She withdraws a lethal-looking pair of stainless-steel needles, saying without turning, “The benches are for girlfriends. Just so you know.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I glance around, expecting to see a flock of them standing around, looking huffy.

  “It’s stupid. But if you’re still there when they show up later, they’ll hate you forever. Word to the wise and all.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks.” Not interested in having a pissing contest with the girlfriends, I sit on the ground near Ivy, prime location by a trash barrel and a streetlight. A metal sign stands nearby, reading Warning! Neighborhood Watch—We Look Out for Each Other! Doubtful; the house across the street has a For Sale sign in the overgrown yard. Ditto for the yards on either side. “Anything else I should know about this place?”

  “Hmm.” She touches her needles to her chin. “Don’t forget anything here that you don’t want to lose. Pretty strict finders, keepers rule.” Her hair’s only a couple inches long, fitted snugly around her ears, a slight fringe across her brow; I’ve never worn mine that short. Takes guts to leave yourself nothing to hide behind. “And the cops don’t drive by much, but it happens. So, anything you don’t want an audience for, take it into the woods.”

  Another whine from the play tunnel, and now it’s obvious they have someone trapped in there; the skaters lean down now and then to peer at their prisoner, and I hear a scratchy little voice say, “You guys? Come on.”

  My video has started in jerky movements, a somber-faced news anchor shuffling her notes. Ivy’s needles click rhythmically on her project. “What’re you making?” I tap my knuckles against the pavement, ready to chuck my phone.

  “A cat cozy.” She holds it up, three-quarters of a cable-knit sack, unsurprisingly black. “For Mr. Crowley. When it’s done, I can wear him.”

  She hands me her phone. The wallpaper is a photo of a massive tabby cat sprawled on its back in a comma shape, eyes wide and mesmerizing. “Wow. That’ll be a workout.”

  She smiles. “He’s such a snuggle-muffin. He’ll probably fall asleep in there and be, like, drooling.”

  A horn sounds, and a long, brown, old-man car pulls into the nearly empty parking lot, shocks squeaking, flashing its brights a few times to yells and wolf whistles. Trace gets out of the driver’s seat, followed by Sage and Bree. I get up to meet them, looking over at Kincaid, who’s coasting the boundary of the flat bottom, gaze focused but turned inward.

  Bree doesn’t seem surprised to see me as she splits off from Sage and Trace. “We would’ve been here sooner, but we had to check in with his mom first.” Her eye roll has layers and meanings I can’t decipher before Sage’s fist lands on my shoulder, her light steps crunching over dried leaves as she moves around me.

  “Clarabelle! You came.” She hands me her phone. “Put your number in. We couldn’t text or anything to let you know what wa
s up.”

  So they weren’t blowing me off on purpose. Here’s my cue to speak, tell them about Kincaid, our run-in at the marsh—but for some reason, I don’t. I’m still sorting it out myself, that weird conversation, our walk through the woods that should’ve been awkward but wasn’t. The moment is passing, gone, and all I do is save my info in her contacts and follow Bree’s methodical steps through the cedar chips scattering the playground, my smile fading to consternation, gaze on my shoes. I should’ve said something. Now my silence feels next door to a lie.

  The boy with the drumsticks, who everybody calls Moon, is performing machine-gun bursts on top of the tunnel, the others practically falling over laughing. Trace goes to them and leans way, way down to look inside. From where we stand, I see a face appear like a smudgy orb; a boy, on his hands and knees. “Deacon.” Trace, all patience and gravity. “Got one question for you. What’s black, white, and red all over?”

  “Um . . .” The boy bites his lip, then brightens. “A newspaper?”

  Trace holds his gaze for a long moment. “Bahhhh!” Wrong-buzzer sound; Trace throws his finger in Deacon’s face. “You shall not pass!”

  “You shall not pass!” The others take it up. “You shall not pass!” They close over the tunnel opening again and Deacon wails.

  I look at Bree. “Um . . . should we do something?”

  She pulls her gaze away from the tunnel. “Nah. He loves it.”

  “Kid’s gotta learn.” Trace shakes his head as he comes back to us. Sage makes a sad face at him. “Hey, when I was his age, if I’d come down here with my little baby board? Skaters would’ve kicked the shit out of me and dropped my ass in the river with a couple bricks in my Underoos. We’re going easy on him.” He drives each word home with his forefinger: “Little kids. Skate. In. Their driveways. Everybody knows that.” He literally throws his board and jumps on it. “Probably the most attention he’ll get all day, anyway.”

  Seven

  IT’S LATE. AND there’s a sound in my room.

  It starts—a tiny tick-tick—when I’m in bed reading A Clockwork Orange. The book’s insane, told in some made-up language, one you can almost understand but not quite, and it’s all just so damned Kincaid that I won’t let myself put it down, as if it could be some kind of instruction manual for him, complete with diagrams.

  Tick-tickatick. Coming from my closet, where the door stands partially open. Mouse in the wall; wouldn’t be the first place we’ve lived that had them. Why do these things only happen at night? I bear down on every sentence, ignoring the words I don’t know and grabbing on to the ones I do until meaning rises to the top, the whole thing weirdly like deciphering Shakespeare. An image forms: guys hanging out in a milk bar—I guess people drink milk for fun in this world. Droogs looking for a fight, hoodies who wear bowlers.

  A flurry of ticks; the thing is in here, with me, not in the wall. I set the book down, go to the closet doorway, turn on the light, and peer inside.

  Nothing. Some clothes on hangers, a high shelf, empty except for a single shoebox with my leopard-prints inside. A stain on the carpet in the back corner that I hadn’t noticed before, like some kid stashed their science project on mold in here a little too long.

  I catch it from the corner of my eye as I turn. From this angle, it looks like dead skin, a big flake peeling from the wall.

  I stare, and it takes shape. A pair of wings, antennae. A sepia-toned moth, lying flat against white paint, basking in the glow of the bulb.

  Its frothy wings have two dark dots on them, like slightly off-kilter eyes. A disguise, I’ve read, to fool predators, make them think they’re looking at the face of a bigger animal. A scrap of face on my wall, staring back, waiting to see what I’ll do.

  I’m not above asking Dad to get rid of a bug for me—not proud, either—but they’re asleep, turned in to watch a movie on the laptop over an hour ago, which means Ma was probably dead to the world by nine thirty, rolled over on her side with her pillow stuffed between her arm and head. She wasn’t in a great mood tonight; I think hope’s fading fast that her job might not be too awful, that the same old stuff—jerk coworkers, mind-numbing tasks, managers who are never around—might not have followed her here.

  I grab a notebook and reach out toward the moth, not sure if I’m offering a ride to freedom or preparing to smack. It slides on without resistance, paper on paper. Those pantomime eyes never waver.

  Dark trek through the hallway and kitchen, lit only by occasional swaths of streetlight spilling across our linoleum. Some neighbor has their music up loud, and there are muffled voices out there, probably a party.

  Slide the chain lock, lean out the back door to shake the moth free. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it loop-the-loop and it’s gone, part of the night. I stand for a moment, trying to make out the dark scribble of treetops against the sky, imagining the marsh. I wonder if somebody else is trying to catch Kincaid on the trails tonight. I had to leave early to get home in time for supper with Dad, Bree walking through the woods with me, the two of us talking Kincaid rapid-fire, my memory of finding him alone in the marsh glowing like an ember inside me, flickering, buried deep. Telling her now would be impossible, would make it look like I was hoarding secrets and afraid of getting caught. Bree would smell betrayal. I can’t risk that, not with her.

  Bang. I flinch back, pulling the door shut. Nothing more. I peer out the window that faces on the next unit, seeing a light burning behind Bree’s window shade. Their back door hangs open, swaying. The music is coming from their place.

  More voices. Raised in laughter or anger—funny how they sound the same through the thickness of a single wall. Silhouettes move past Bree’s shade. The bass is pounding, pounding, and not Hazel’s dance music, either. Something heavier, older. Metallica, maybe Pantera.

  The back door is shoved wide open again, bouncing off the side of the house. A woman’s voice—“What do you want from me?” Tense, charged silence. “Well?”

  Bree says something in her quiet, cutting tone. I can’t make out what.

  Then her mom comes down the steps, jacket in hand, boots clopping sharply as she passes by our windows on the way to the parking lot.

  After her Jeep pulls away, I stand a moment longer, looking at Bree’s window. The music shuts off. In time, a silhouette forms, passing the shade once or twice before sinking to half height, motionless. Bree is sitting on the edge of her bed the way we did the other night, in her room of cream and slate blue, maybe with a book in front of her, unread.

  “Tell me about Gavin Cotswold.”

  It’s the first thing I say to Bree at the bus stop Thursday morning. She and Hazel weren’t in school yesterday; taking a mental health day, maybe. Bree doesn’t look destroyed or anything—actually, not a trace of Tuesday night’s argument shows on her face—and I want to cover my own guilt over watching, listening, doing nothing. I lay in bed for a long time after her mom left, torn between going next door to make sure Bree was okay and respecting her five-mile perimeter of personal space. But the next morning, I knew: if it were me, I would’ve appreciated the pop-in. Guess I’m out of practice with this friendship thing. Before I left for the bus stop this morning, I did a quick search for Nica Pleck on my followers lists. She has a different profile pic now, different haircut. Same smile. I tried to remember exactly how it felt, having somebody I spent almost every day with, when being a bestie was once second nature for me.

  Now, at my words, Sage stops eating her Pop-Tart and glances at Hazel, who’s being allowed closer to us than usual. Hazel’s zipped into a pink insulated jacket, completely absorbed in Toy Blast on her phone. She’s the proof of Tuesday night’s argument: tired eyes, no attempt at her usual starter makeup.

  “It’s all online,” Bree says, watching a chip bag blow around the posts of the Affordable Family Housing sign like a half-blind dog looking for a place to lift its leg.

  “I’d rather hear it from you. That way I know it’s not bullshit.”

  B
ree glances at her sister. “Hazel, cover your ears.”

  “But I already—”

  “Cover.” Hazel sighs, puts her phone away, and obeys, glancing around to see who’s staring. “Did you look him up?”

  “I watched, like, half a video.”

  “He lived here,” Sage says musingly. “Unit Three. Right across the street from me.” She wears a navy-blue peacoat in the morning chill, with a snowflake-patterned trapper cap, scarf, and mitten set that would make me look like a preschooler; Sage rocks it like a model in an Abercrombie ad. “Pretty sure if you look up ‘hot mess,’ there’s a pic of Gavin. Sad.”

  “I can’t believe he was dead that whole time. Rotting out there.” Bree’s expression is cool, no change. “Everybody kept saying it was the Mumbler, cleaning house. I figured the cops would drag him out of a meth bust down in Portland or something. Remember how he had his stomach pumped twice freshman year because they caught him popping pills?”

  From the corner of my eye, I see green, blue, white, and yellow, cruising downhill: the hoodies. Green Hood is doing some white-boy rapping, the latest song you can’t get away from, freestyling here and there, stupid stuff to make his crew laugh. He drags his heels, doing a slow drive-by past the enclosure, pointing to each girl, including Hazel, and a few of the boys, “What up, bitch—bitch—bitch—bitch—”

  Bree’s sneaker meets his back wheel, hard. He swivels, almost spills. Planting his feet, he whips around to face us, just in time to see me laugh. Loud.

  Bree stares back at him, her mouth a hard line that doesn’t quite qualify as a smile. “Aidan.” His name is a quiet, condescending dare, all of us waiting to see what he’ll do. “Be good. Or I’ll drive a stick so far in your spokes you’ll never get it out.”

  Everybody’s seeing this, even middle schoolers. Eager eyes, laughter barely held behind bitten lips. Green Hood’s sophomore status, manhood, everything’s on the line. He’ll retaliate, has to, but instead, some intense, Jupiter-like gravity drags him back into the saddle. One final, inadequate, “Bitch,” and then he pedals off, low over the handlebars, his boys following at a distance, like maybe if they hang back, nobody will think they’re together.