The Missing Season

by Gillian French

  I’m the last one out of Song’s. I don’t look at Kincaid as I pass him, but he brushes close by me as he releases the door handle, his lips near my ear—“Nice coat”—before reuniting his board with the sidewalk.

  “Thanks?” It’s a bombardier jacket, fake brown leather with a fake shearling collar, a grommeted waist cinch I never fasten. Not something I get a lot of compliments on.

  Still crunching his fortune cookie, Trace sticks his hands in his pockets as the breeze whips around us. He paid for everyone with crumpled ones and fives, yesterday’s booze money—I guess that’s what they meant by “covered”—leaving an untidy stack for Daisy before she even had a chance to bring the bill. “You coming with us?” he asks Kincaid.

  “Nah.” Kincaid steps on his board and leaves without a goodbye, his head angled up like he’s watching the skies.

  Bree whispers, “Think he’s going home?”

  “Probably. Crap.” There’s never a good time for us to follow him.

  Trace holds up his phone. “Tick-tock. We got three minutes.”

  We run.

  We cross back onto school grounds at a different place, cutting through the woods that separate it from the house next door, scaling a chain-link fence, and dashing across the field to a basement-level door. We’re already late—even using every trespassing shortcut they know, it’s still a five-minute run from Main Street up to school—and it’s now officially two minutes past the bell, class time trickling away, our seats conspicuously empty.

  Trace fumbles in his pocket, pulls out a key, and jams it into the lock, letting us go ahead of him down the dim stairway into the basement before locking the door behind him. “Where’d you get that?” I whisper.

  “Office. Took it when I was waiting to see Crack one time.”

  As we cross the concrete floor, I keep expecting a custodian to spring to full height in front of us like one of those punching-bag clowns, but it’s just a big basement with a little daylight filtering through low windows, the air vibrating with the low-grade roar of a boiler. We go up another flight of stairs to a door, easing it open to peek out at the empty English wing hallway.

  Trace takes the main hallway, heading back up the stairs toward the art room. Sage and Bree go toward Hyde’s English class, and I turn left, toward study hall, four sets of footsteps fading to mine, alone.

  Klatts pins me with her gaze as I step into room twelve, people turning in their seats to stare. “Sorry.” I fumble the door shut behind me. “Had to go to the bathroom.” I feel like a complete idiot, but the girls said it was their best line. If they give you a hard time, start going into detail, Bree said. No teacher can argue with explosive diarrhea.

  Klatts sniffs, nods, observes me through her triple-power bifocals as I sit and reach into my coat for A Clockwork Orange. Last time I read, Alex was home, enjoying classical music after an evening of beating and raping. I’ve only got about a hundred more pages to catch up on, but so what—I’ve got all study hall to read. Just an off-campus lunch. Not like I blew off actual English class or something. I picture myself trying to sell that line to Ma, and my stomach curdles. Precisely why I’ll make sure she never, ever finds out.

  In my pocket, something crinkles against my fingers. A lump in a plastic wrapper. I pull it out partway and see a fortune cookie. Kincaid, brushing by me in the doorway of Song’s. He slipped me his cookie.

  My smile takes over, the feeling of being chosen, made special, erasing any worry of people noticing the signs that I was out in the cold fresh air a minute ago, my hair windblown, my hands chapped. That I was tasting the real world instead of the stale gerbil pellets of this place all day.

  Nobody looks twice. Nobody questions it.

  Tearing the seal on a food wrapper in study hall is like using a can opener around a pack of hungry dogs. I wait until I’m at my locker, the door blocking people’s view as I break the cookie open and take the paper slip out.

  Fortune favors the brave.

  Eleven

  BREE’S MOM’S JEEP is in the lot when I step outside the next afternoon.

  I hesitate, glancing at their stoop. Sage and I are supposed to show up at Bree’s place at four thirty, bringing whatever we volunteered to hunt down from Trace’s list. I’ve got the Jell-O; we’ve had a couple boxes in with the nonperishable pantry stuff for at least two moves now. Berry Blue.

  Bree’s mom is just the weaselly excuse I need to turn around and go back inside where it’s warm and the kitchen smells like Ma’s baked chicken, sizzling in the oven. Kincaid’s fortune mocks me from my pocket; I’ve been having serious second thoughts about joining Trace’s siege tonight. I should’ve asked more questions, found out what we were really getting into instead of sitting there wondering what the hell was going on with Kincaid. But Bree. She’s waiting.

  I knock, sticking the Jell-O boxes into my coat in case her mom answers. Instead, it’s Hazel, who says, “Hi,” in a hushed tone, moving back so I can step over the sneakers piled on the mat.

  The house is quiet except for the sound of the dishwasher running. Sage sits on the kitchen counter; Bree leans nearby beside a big mixing bowl and a bag of water balloons, Sage’s contribution. Bree holds her hand out for the Jell-O. “My mom’s sleeping, so. You know. No raves.”

  I’ve never made Jell-O bombs before, so I do as I’m told. At Song’s, all this was just talk over chop suey and dumplings, but now we’re wrist-deep in serious prank material. Hazel has the honor of mixing fruity-smelling powder and water; Sage squeezes the balloon necks tight to the funnel as Bree pours in the blue goop, careful not to overfill; I tie them off, dividing them between two grocery bags for easy lugging.

  Bree shows Hazel Trace’s list. “You probably have some of this junk lying around, right?”

  Hazel looks at Sage. “Is this for your boyfriend?” The word full of import.

  Bree makes a dismissive sound. “That falls under the heading of need-to-know.”

  Sighing, Hazel leads us to her room. Being in there reminds me of their fight Thursday night: tears, clothes stuffed into a duffel bag, Bree’s shout tearing through drywall, insulation, splitting the night air. Dad is not an option.

  Hazel goes straight for her closet, digging around, tossing things over her shoulder. She hasn’t done the big clean yet, where you get rid of every single babyish thing you own, every stray doll or kitten-clinging-to-a-tree-branch poster, driven by sheer dread that somebody at school might find out you still have it and tell the world.

  A door opens in the hallway. Bare feet scuff to the bathroom. I know Bree hears, but she refuses to look away from Hazel, still sifting through geological layers. It’s a standoff, a turf war over the square footage of this tiny apartment, and I exchange a glance with Sage, who looks as trapped as I feel, absently snapping a hair elastic against her wrist.

  A minute later, Bree’s mom passes on a nonstop from hallway to kitchen, her long, tall frame emphasized by black leggings and a clinging hip-length gray tunic. She spares half a glance at us; I get my first impression of her eyes, large, ice-chip pale like Bree’s, brows plucked down to nearly nothing, then she’s pulled her gaze away. Nothing to see here.

  Hazel unearths the last couple things we need: a Halloween makeup kit with most of the green paint used up, and a mask. It’s meant to look like Disney’s version of Cinderella, or maybe Sleeping Beauty. Waves of molded blond hair, shaded cheekbones, hollow eyes.

  Out in the kitchen, Bree’s mom is making coffee. She only turns when the process demands it, taking a mug from the cupboard, looking at the four of us getting ready to leave with no indication of anything: no curiosity as to who I am, or what we might’ve been doing ransacking Hazel’s closet. Bree has the mask and makeup kit hidden inside her fleece, and her gaze settles on a random corner as she grinds her feet into her sneakers.

  “How’s it going, Faye?” Something in Sage’s fresh, smiling face makes it clear that she’s giving Bree’s mom shit, using her own friendliness to c
all Faye out for not making anybody feel even remotely welcome.

  Faye returns her gaze, leaning languidly against the counter as the mini Keurig machine whirs. “Oh, you know, Sage. Nothing caffeine and a lobotomy can’t cure.” Takes her mug, watching the artificial sweetener dissolve as she stirs, adding in a different tone, “That trash should’ve gone out days ago,” on some closed mother-daughter frequency.

  Bree looks over. “I’m the only one capable of taking out the trash?”

  A beat. “Take it when you go.” The curtain of Faye’s hair falls, and we might as well already be gone. She carries her coffee to the living room.

  Bree drags the bag from the can, another from the closet, slamming things around. As Sage and I each grab a bag of Jell-O bombs, Hazel says, “Can I come with you guys? Please?”

  Bree’s no is a given, but then her gaze flicks to the living room. “Okay. For a little while.” Another territory gained; Hazel, as war profits.

  We walk down the hill, Bree and I together, Hazel trotting along ahead of us, talking to Sage a mile a minute. “She seems okay,” I say quietly, nodding to Hazel when Bree looks over. “After the other night.”

  “Oh.” Bree shrugs. “She’s fine. She just freaks out when she feels like nobody sees her.”

  There’s something so spot-on about that; absolute truth. I pause. “Where does your mom work?”

  “Lots of places.” Her brusqueness punches an awkward hole between us. She speaks quickly, filling it in, showing her anger isn’t for me: “Forever 21 in the mall. Part-time. She’s a bartender at Carrigan’s Pub, too. Most nights.”

  I make a small noise. “Sounds busy.”

  Bree says nothing for a moment. “It’s really that she doesn’t want to be here. She could come home a lot more than she does. She says being here messes her head up. Makes her think about Dad, something stupid like that.” She gestures to herself and Hazel. “It’s us. We remind her. Like, that she was married and procreated and once owned a waffle iron, you know?”

  I nod, saying slowly, “An inconvenient truth?”

  She looks over, like maybe I just hit that same sweet spot, the no-bullshit bull’s-eye. “Yeah. Basically. Whatever. She does her thing and I do mine, mostly. It’s just”—a shake of her head—“she pisses me off. That’s all.”

  Sage falls back a step, glancing at Bree. “Have you seen that?”

  We’re near the base of the hill, at the low unit numbers. I follow their gazes to 3B, where a bedroom window covered in a Bruins beach towel glows with the light of an electric candle sitting on the frame. “Deb told my mom that she’s going to leave it burning in his memory.” Sage sees my look. “That’s where Gavin Cotswold lived.”

  “Ugh.” Bree stares for a moment, maybe looking for signs of life, but the apartment is dark and still. “God, that’s sad.”

  “You said you live across the street?” I say. Sage nods.

  “Middle apartment.” Warmly glowing windows, a patterned welcome mat at the front entrance. It has a neat, put-together look that reminds me of Sage herself. Someone left the outside bulb burning: another light to guide the way home.

  The skate park has a shrinking effect on Hazel, reducing her to the size of a figurine, maybe one of those ceramic shepherdesses you see in china hutches. She sits way back against the fence, huddled over her phone in her puffy coat and a pair of fuzzy earmuffs she must have smuggled in her pocket, because Bree sure as hell never would’ve sanctioned them, sneaking looks at the skaters and rapid-fire texting with a friend—OMG @ skate park with hotties, something to that effect.

  When Trace finally shows himself, darkness is coming down, a deeper saturation as the days grow shorter. The boys are more wired than I’ve ever seen them, Moon swinging out of the passenger-seat window, drumming his sticks down the length of the hood, Trace tossing Sage up in the air like she weighs nothing, catching her as an afterthought, walking with her hanging over his shoulder. Kincaid’s last out of the car, finding a streetlight to lean against instead as he watches the park as if through a soaped pane. It makes me reluctant to go over, even though I’m bursting with the need to pin him down about the cookie, his bit of $8.99 unsolicited wisdom.

  Trace catches sight of Hazel, sitting between the bags we brought. His wolf canines appear.

  Bree steps in to intercept. “Leave her alone. I’m serious.”

  “When are you not?” He dodges her outstretched palm, walking toward Hazel, who draws back when she sees him coming, her shoulders pressed against the chain link.

  I think of the kid blocked in the tunnel, the transgressor, straying too far from his driveway, and raise my voice. “She’s the only reason we could find the stuff you wanted, you know.”

  Never breaking eye contact with Hazel, Trace hunkers down over the bags, paws through, says gravely, “Are you a helper elf?”

  Hazel stares. “Yes?”

  He bounces back on his heels, nodding. “Okay, then. Sweet.” Finds the princess mask, turns it over in his hands. “This”—his laughter starts low, from the belly—“is mother-effing genius.”

  “Don’t get caught,” Hazel says later, leaning into Trace’s backseat after we let her out at the Terraces, a blast of wind furling her hair around her neck and shoulders, her gaze on Bree. We rode over from the park with five of us crammed into the back, Sage and Bree sitting on laps so Hazel could wear a seat belt. “Okay? Promise.”

  Bree, her neck flushing because Kincaid’s in the passenger seat, says, “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not dumb. I know you guys are going to do something bad.” Moon mutters about the cold, but I’ve got to give Hazel props—she stands her ground, refusing to look away from Bree. “Just promise.”

  “Promise. Now go inside.” Bree catches the door handle and slams it shut, but Hazel doesn’t go. She stands where she is, watching us back into the street, her image continuing to shrink in the side-view, small enough to fit in a thimble, then to dance on the head of a pin as we go—

  —gogogo—

  Twelve

  —CRUISING THROUGH THE night in our bubble of heat and music and laughter, the greasy smell of monster makeup in my nose as I layer it on, my reflection crammed into the mirrored lid of the makeup case with Bree’s and Sage’s as we do our faces up like death and decay.

  Must be true what they say about smell being linked to memory, because at once I’m trick-or-treating in elementary school, riding through a black velvet night in the warm confines of Ma’s car. But now it’s a different car, Bree beside me instead of family, and instead of candy, we have beer, a six-pack stolen from the fridge of Moon’s older brother while they were stealing the weaponry now on the floor of the backseat, Bree and I drunk-giggling already because Kincaid’s here, so close, and anything, literally anything, could happen—

  —and too soon we’re braking, crawling at a sloth’s pace into the new quiet, grit crunching beneath tire treads until we’re idling alongside a curb. Hushed residential streets come into focus again, most people at the homecoming football game, semiformal dance to follow, for those who give a shit about such things. The street sign on the corner reads Prefect.

  And maybe I’m more scared than I thought.

  “Which house is his?” Moon, low, keeping one paintball gun for himself, handing the other up to Kincaid, who did some insane two-minute masterpiece on his face, a Day of the Dead−style skull, eyes bright in black hollows, teeth neon against his lips, and maybe he is the guerrilla artist after all, maybe he painted that date on the rocks just to fool us.

  “Don’t know. I couldn’t ask anybody without being obvious. Obviously,” Trace says, then giggles. He pulls the princess mask down over his face. Too small for his head, the plastic oval seems to hover in the darkness, shiny and dimpling, a baby doll with a Mohawk and a disconcerting hole punched in the center of its pursed lips, and it’s all I can look at, that hole. “Hit everybody. That way, we’ll know we got Spicer.”

  A
queasy disintegrating feeling flutters through my stomach as Bree lifts a bag of bombs into her lap, and I close my eyes, fingers finding the slip of paper in my coat pocket. (Fortune favors the brave.) Behind my eyes waits Kincaid from Friday, sunshine and storefront shadows casting bars of darkness, then light, across his back as he left us outside of Song’s, slaloming down the sidewalk, away. Brave. I want to be that. Anything but ordinary, to see the whole alarm-school-homework-bed drudgery as optional, not life. Maybe this is my chance. Cement myself with these guys, make real friends, no exaggeration or wishful thinking. They’re trusting me enough to want me in on this. I absolutely, positively cannot choke.

  Trace turns to look at us in the backseat. “Ready?”

  We murmur yeah. Sage says, “Babe? You’re a freak show. You know that, right?”

  “Sure. I know.” Gradual pressure on the accelerator, turning onto Perfect. Slow and easy, the old-man car’s license plate number hidden under smeared marsh mud provided by Kincaid.

  Bree, Moon, and Kincaid power their windows down. The street stretches out in front of us, lit windows through lace curtains, gleaming bumpers in driveways. Kincaid and Moon raise their guns, barrels on windowsills, fingers squeezing triggers, forcing air through PVC pipe—

  Bang! Bang! Bang! as paintballs connect with aluminum garage doors, the sides of minivans and SUVs, orange and black paint vomiting all over white clapboards and mailboxes.