by A. C. Wise
“First day of school. Big day. I know there’s barely two weeks left in the year, but I pulled some strings.”
His father smiled, but the strain showed behind it. Getting Cere into school right before summer vacation probably had more to do with getting her out of the way—her and Caleb both—and that made her Caleb’s problem again. Caleb glanced at her. Could she have had something to do with the break in?
“Bus’ll be here soon. Better get going.” Caleb’s father didn’t leave room for objections.
As the bus pulled up to their drive, a new worry struck Caleb. Gossip would already have made its wildfire circuit around Lewis. Half the kids on the bus, if not all, would know about Cere.
Caleb hunched his shoulders under his backpack as he hurried down the drive, not bothering to see if Cere kept up. He looked at his feet as he climbed on board and headed toward the back. Silence followed, which was almost worse than whispers. He had the urge to shove Cere away from him. He didn’t need any more reason for Robert Lord and Denny Harmon to pick on him. Not that they ever needed an excuse.
Halfway back, Mark Nayar waved Caleb to the seat beside him. Mark’s parents were born in India; as the only two non-white kids in their class—in practically the whole school—they’d gravitated toward each other the first day of kindergarten. The friendship had stuck.
Unlike Caleb, Mark had an amazing ability to shrug off the whispers and name-calling. Mark was one of the smallest boys in their class, but he hardly ever got beat up. The way he grinned and shrugged in response to attempts to bait him probably made Robert and Denny uneasy. It was easier to pretend he didn’t exist. Which left Caleb—and no matter how many times he tried to follow Mark’s example, he couldn’t seem to grow his skin as thick.
Caleb slid into the seat in front of Mark, leaving space for Cere to sit beside him. Be like Mark. Stick by Cere. Don’t let them get to you. Caleb recited the mantra in his head, holding himself rigid. Mark leaned over the seat between them and stuck out his hand.
“I’m Mark.” Cere regarded him coolly, and Caleb braced himself for her to say something weird. To his surprise, Cere took Mark’s hand, blinking her expression into one of mild politeness.
“Hello.” They shook hands, and Caleb felt some of his tension unwind, but it didn’t last long.
As the bus wheezed forward, a chewed wad of paper, soaked in spit, hit the back of Cere’s head. From the telltale hyena laughter, Caleb didn’t have to turn to know Robert and Denny were to blame. A second wad struck Cere’s head, followed by a stage whisper.
“Hey, witch-bitch. Swamp girl.”
Very slowly, Cere turned around.
“Don’t.” Caleb’s throat tightened on the hypocrisy of the word. Robert and Denny had left him with countless bruises over the years, always placed just so they could be plausibly explained as an accident during baseball. “They’re not worth it.”
“Hey, you guys want to hear a good joke?” Mark knelt on his seat, facing Robert and Denny.
“Shut it, Nayar.”
Mark ignored Denny, launching into a long setup Caleb recognized from an old Bill Hicks routine. Mark was determined to be a stand-up comedian someday and spent hours memorizing routines. Caleb hunched his shoulders higher. Maybe Mark’s joke would distract them. Maybe not. The words faggot and queer bounced around in his head, and he curled his fingers around the edge of the cracked vinyl seat.
“Yes. I am a witch.” Cere’s voice, near toneless, cut across Mark’s words, and he fell silent, his mouth dropping open.
Cere knelt on the seat now too, looking straight at Robert and Denny. The shirt she wore—who knows where his father had found it—finally registered: the Care Bears lined up under a glittering rainbow stretched over puffy clouds. Nervous laughter clogged Caleb’s throat, turning into a cough.
“What are you going to do, witch-bitch?” Robert found his voice, but his gaze cut left, looking for support from Denny. “Put a spell on us?”
“Maybe.”
Cere pointed at Robert’s chest. Her eyes rolled back, crescents of white showing beneath her lids, and she mumbled words Caleb couldn’t make out. His chest tightened, unreasonable fear. Her skin wasn’t glowing; there were no threads of gold in her eyes. But still.
“You’d better fucking stop it.” Robert’s eyes widened.
Cere ignored him, her voice going lower, almost a growl.
“I’m warning you,” Robert said, he stood up halfway.
The bus driver, Mrs. Reeves, smacked the horn. “Sit down while the bus is moving.”
Robert slouched low, arms crossed, scowling. Cere returned to her original position, sitting straight with her hands in her lap. The faintest of smiles touched her lips, the first Caleb had seen from her. A whoop built in his chest; he wanted to punch her shoulder in victory, but a flickering hint of pain in her eyes stopped him. She looked much older than twelve, making Caleb think of the woman in his dream. Mark leaned over the seat between them.
“What was that? What did you do to him?”
Now Cere’s smile was unmistakable, even though the shadows didn’t leave her eyes.
“Nothing. I was just saying ‘rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.’”
“Huh?” Mark looked confused, but Caleb couldn’t help but grin—part appreciative and part embarrassed. He’d almost believed Cere’s performance. He nudged her with his elbow.
“That was great.”
Her smile faded, and she knotted her hands together in her lap. Her reply was so soft, Caleb wasn’t sure Mark was meant to hear. Or him for that matter.
“Sometimes you have to be scarier than the monsters.”
chapter three
Ask anyone, they’ll tell you this area is haunted. Maybe they don’t believe in ghosts, but they know someone who has a story—weird lights in the trees, strange music, a shadowy figure that disappears when you look head-on. There are empty places here, lonely stretches with more trees than people. Sure there are old forests out West and big open spaces in the Midwest, but it’s not the same. In the South, we have our own blood and pain, and time moves different here. People from elsewhere say folks talk slower down here. We’re slower to forget too and slower to forgive. Even the land holds onto its scars.
Small towns like this, folks’ll give you the shirt off their backs and then turn right around, talk about you when you’re gone. That doesn’t make them any less kind or good. It’s just the way things are. See, there are two Souths: one on the surface, one underneath. Underneath is where we keep our angels and our demons both.
—Myths, History, and Legends from the Delta to the Bayou (Whippoorwill Press, 2016)
***
L
ight glinted off the water. Caleb gripped the rope swing and balanced one foot on the knot near the bottom before kicking off. The creek was swollen high, but there was still a fluttering moment of stomach-dropping fear as he let go. He tucked his limbs and let out a whoop, pinching his nose just before he struck the water.
Cold slapped him, waking every part of his skin, but he had enough experience not to gasp and pull water into his lungs. He’d been jumping off this swing almost since he could walk. Bubbles rose around him, guiding him as he kicked back to the surface.
Mark perched on one of the big boulders on the shore. The last two weeks of classes had unrolled in a blur. There hadn’t been another incident with Cere since the first day on the bus. The most dramatic thing that happened was Mark breaking his arm on a dare, jumping off the slide. He waved his cast-bound arm now and lobbed a pinecone with his free hand, so Caleb had to duck under the water to avoid it.
“Outta my way, asswipe.” Denny grabbed the rope swing as Caleb surfaced again.
He pulled himself onto the muddy bank as Denny cannonballed into the creek, spraying water. The first day of summer, the first day of freedom. He wouldn’t let Denny spo
il his mood. Even Mark was having fun, despite the cast. Caleb clambered onto the boulder beside him, leaving damp patches that evaporated quickly in the sun.
“Hey, faggot.”
Caleb’s head snapped up, immediately hating himself for the reflexive motion. Denny snickered, standing ankle-deep in the water.
“Ignore him.” Mark nudged Caleb as Denny kicked at the water, sending up a spray that fell short of their perch.
“Where’s your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have a girl—” Caleb stopped, feeling the trap too late. The light in Denny’s eyes shifted. Robert waded over to join him, standing shoulder to shoulder, their expressions identical and cruel.
“The witch-bitch,” Denny said, elbowing Robert. “Bet she likes dark meat.”
“Fuck off.” Caleb stood, the words out before he could stop them.
His skin prickled. There was no Mrs. Reeves now, no adults at all to stop Denny and Robert. There was no one to stop him either.
“Come down here and make me, nigger.” Robert narrowed his eyes, speaking the last word like candy on his tongue. His smile spread, melting butter, and Caleb’s skin went from hot to cold, the word landing like a punch to the gut.
Between the two, Robert was more dangerous. It was one of Lewis’s open secrets that Robert’s granddaddy had been part of the Klan, and his robe and pointy hood were still in a box somewhere in Robert’s daddy’s garage.
Caleb jumped down, feet squelching in the creek mud. He was at least of a height with Denny and taller than Robert, but they each had a good ten pounds on him. This was suicide.
“Let it go.” Mark was on his feet now too. Caleb ignored him.
Where was Cere? What if Robert and Denny had done something to her?
“What did you do to her?” The sun hit Caleb’s eyes. He squinted.
“More like what did you do to her? You take a look at her little titties in the shower, or are you too much of a fag?” Now it was Denny’s turn again. He snickered at his own joke, and beside him, Robert continued to watch Caleb with half-lidded eyes, making Caleb think of a snake. Not a rattler that announced its presence with bluster and sound, more like a cottonmouth, silent until it struck.
“Lookit the faggot get mad.” Denny elbowed Robert again.
Caleb’s fingers curled. The words stung, clinging to him like a second skin.
“Fuck you!” Caleb shoved Robert as hard as he could, and Robert took a step to keep his balance.
“Caleb, don’t.” Mark scrambled down from the boulder, awkward with one arm. At that moment, Denny’s fist slammed into Caleb’s stomach.
He folded, and the world went grey-black with pain. He heard Mark shout, but Caleb could only wheeze, curling around the point of impact. Robert tackled him, and Caleb went down. When he tried to roll away from the pain, Robert kicked him. Caleb tasted blood.
Through the haze, he was vaguely aware of other kids gathering, but no one moved to help. He hauled in a ragged breath, coughing, and got one arm beneath him. Denny kicked him in the elbow, dropping Caleb back into the mud where he flopped like a landed fish.
“Get up and fight.” Robert nudged Caleb with his toes, his voice hungry.
Caleb managed to lift his head just as a pair of fish-pale hands snaked out of the water and clamped around Robert’s ankles, yanking. Instead of going to his knees, Robert tipped straight forward like a felled tree, his stomach striking the muddy shore with a painful slap. His breath left him in a grunt, which turned into a strange high-pitched squeal.
Caleb scrambled back. A piglet had escaped from Roy Wilson’s last summer and got tangled in barbed wire; it had made the same sound.
Robert clawed at the shore, fingers scoring furrows in the mud as something dragged him backward. Water lapped his knees, his hips, his chest; his eyes went panic-wide. Cere popped out of the water behind him, grinning. Denny huffed out a breath of surprise. Even though Cere no longer held him, Robert continued to thrash for a moment before slumping still, tremors running up and down his body in a series of aftershocks.
“She killed him,” Denny shouted. “The witch-bitch killed him.”
A line of blood snaked from Robert’s nose. Denny leapt toward Cere. She ducked under the water, and Denny slipped, going down with a heavy splash. He came up spluttering, dove again, and surfaced empty-handed. It was almost comical, watching Denny’s face getting redder. But the fact that Robert hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked, and the blood running from his nose left Caleb cold.
Before Caleb could touch him to check, Robert leapt straight up. He wiped at the blood running from his nose, smearing it across his cheeks and chin.
“Are you okay?” Caleb stood, ignoring the pain, but Robert spun on his heel and sprinted up the path toward the road.
Caleb stared after him. Stunned silence spread around the creek, followed by a ripple of whispers. He heard “witch” and “spell” and “curse.”
Cold fingers brushed Caleb’s palm, and he jumped. Cere stood behind him as though she’d just stepped out from the trees. Her braids were dark with water, dripping over her shoulders.
“What did you do?” Caleb wasn’t sure if he was asking what she’d done to Robert to make him scream, make his nose bleed, or how she’d managed to drag him when he easily weighed fifteen pounds more than her. Or how she’d disappeared under the water and reappeared behind him in the woods.
Cere’s grin faded, her eyes going a muddy-dark like pain.
“I saved you,” she said.
Caleb shook his head. Under the leaf shadows, she barely looked human. A witch-bitch, just like Robert and Denny said. He was sharply aware of the others, even Mark, staring at them.
“Let’s go.” He shooed Cere ahead of him, touching her only with the tips of his fingers.
More whispers followed them, and Caleb hurried his steps. He caught Cere’s arm, his fingers making a dark bracelet around her upper arm. At the road, she stopped hard, refusing to move.
“I saved you.” Her voice was louder now. Caleb let go, but she leaned closer, glaring. “I can’t always keep the dark inside. All I did was let him see.”
All at once, Caleb’s anger went out of him. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he could see the way she shook. It was like she was trying to hold something back. Even in the bright sunlight, her shadow loomed bigger than her. She was Cere, and then she wasn’t. She was . . . something. Bits of her slid in and out of focus, and Caleb couldn’t put the pieces together. His mind reeled, and he stepped back. Then all at once she snapped back into place, looking smaller than she had even before, lost and hurting.
“I’m sorry.” Caleb rushed the words.
Cere’s mouth opened; she looked like she hadn’t expected an apology, had never heard one before. They stared at each other, waiting. Caleb swallowed. Cere had helped him, though he hadn’t given her any reason. Who knows how far Denny and Robert would have gone if she hadn’t stopped them.
“Thank you.”
If felt inadequate. He wanted to say more, something comforting, but the words wouldn’t come. Cere nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. The tension evaporated, and she resumed walking; the dull ache from Denny and Robert’s blows caught up with him, and Caleb limped after her.
Caleb’s father held out a plastic baggie filled with ice. “Wanna tell your side of the story?”
Caleb didn’t. The split in his lip wasn’t deep enough for stitches, but it throbbed, and the first touch of cold on the swollen skin made him suck in a sharp breath. His father leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed.
“I got a call from Angeline Lord. Robert claims you tried to drown him.”
Caleb pressed the ice down harder, welcoming the pain.
“Look.” His father sighed; Caleb didn’t hear anger, just weariness. “I know you don’t start fights. And I woul
dn’t trust that Lord boy as far as I could throw him. His daddy’s no good, and he’s got the same mean streak, but that’s no excuse.”
“He called me . . .” Caleb stopped, lowered the ice.
His lips felt numb now, and that almost made the words easier; he could pretend someone else was talking.
“Robert said the N-word.” Caleb hesitated. He knew his father had heard the word a thousand times about his wife, about his son. It felt strange, softening it, but it would be equally wrong saying it out loud.
“And he called me . . .” Here Caleb stopped, and his stomach clenched. Saying the other word—Robert and Denny’s favorite word for him—felt almost worse, like admitting something. If he said it out loud, it would be true. Faggot. He took a deep breath.
“Denny and Robert are assholes.” Caleb drew himself up straight. Maybe he would get in trouble for saying it, but it was the truth.
He braced himself, expecting a lecture. His father had never once whupped him like he suspected Denny Harmon’s daddy did to him. But words could be worse; words left guilt gnawing its way around inside Caleb, knowing he’d let his father down when he already had so much to deal with: work and raising Caleb alone now that his grandparents were gone. And now Cere too.
Instead of a lecture, so flickering brief he might have imagined it, Caleb saw his father struggle with a smile. He gaped, but remembering himself, he launched into the speech he’d practiced on the walk home. If he got it out quick enough, it wouldn’t be a lie. The whole truth was he didn’t know what happened, not really.
“Robert and Denny were saying bad things about Cere. I tried to get them to stop, and Robert punched me. We fought, and Robert must’ve got tangled somehow in the water and freaked out. Maybe he was embarrassed, so he said I tried to drown him.”
Caleb forced himself to meet his father’s eyes. He tried hard not to see Robert shivering in the mud, blood leaking from his nose. Denny and the others could call him a liar. Mark might back him up, but even he’d looked scared of Cere.
