Judas
Chandra
Montemayor-Garza
“Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit
from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.”
-W. E. Henley, from INVICTUS
Prologue
It’s
getting harder to breathe now.
My
lungs burn like they are embedded in a vat of smoldering hot coals. My lids are
like shutters, heavy and pulling down over my eyes. All around the winds begin
to grow still and I know they grow still for me.
As my
heart begins to stutter, I think of the innards of a clock and how each and
every lever and wheel works in synchronization to move the hands around and
around until the batteries finally fail and it comes to a grinding halt.
Each of
my organs is like the innards of a clock; each means something to the others
and as the battery inside my body loses steam, the others begin to jump ship
and I know that soon, it will all be over.
Across the way, a pair of stark blue eyes gazes at me unseeing and I
smile as my heart begins its descent into the strangely alluring abyss of
blackness.
I
promised I wouldn’t leave her…I’m keeping that promise.
Forward
I watched the sun dance off the delicate strands of Shanda's hair as she
stood with the driver's side door open to her red Toyota Camry. I thought to
myself how much it reminded me of sunshine; how each strand shined gold on any
given day no matter how opaque or luminous the skies. Her cobalt blue eyes
sparkled, her teeth gleamed bright and her small nose wrinkled as she squinted
away the light.
“See you tomorrow, Sally,” she said.
“Of course you will.”
I waved goodbye and waited for the bus at the entrance to our school.
Thunder tore through the sky and woke me out of a deep sleep. I was
dreaming of my mother again. It had been so long since I'd dreamed of her—so
young and vibrant—I knew something was wrong. Momma only visits me when a significant
change is forthcoming; a change that usually brings with it pain.
Lightening pierced the darkness and lit up my entire room. My chest
heaved and goose bumps broke over my skin. Behind the eyelet curtains, perched
on a branch of the old pine tree just beyond my window, was a crow. I watched
its silhouette in the dark and then its eyes when lightening flashed again.
They were tiny golden orbs in a small, intelligent face. Those eyes spoke to
me; sent shivers down my spine.
A change is on its way, they said.
Suddenly, my blood went cold.
One
Day 1:
The morning was what one might expect of a town that borders the Smoky Mountains
in March; cold and wet, though it isn’t the reality of our climate. I find that
most believe in winter’s icy touch the closer you live to a crag. The
temperatures dropped significantly over night and when I headed out of our old
farm house and stepped into the frigid air, my breath was clearly visible in
the misty puffs that escaped my mouth. I blew out a lungful of air, played with
my lips to try and coax the mist into shapes it was too stubborn to form as I
waited for the bus to take me to school.
A sound broke through the eerie morning chill. It came from the trees just
above my head. I followed it to a branch on one of many cottonwoods that filled
our farm. Two jeweled eyes peered through the new, sprouting leaves. The
familiar gaze was too clever, too aware to be ordinary.
My skin pimpled.
If I'd been raised in a world where everything was blissfully normal,
the crow might not be so frightening. But, for me, the truth always lay in the
multifaceted world of the abnormal.
The bus pulled up the road and I ran toward it, avoiding the warning
that the bird's presence offered.
Every seat on the yellow school bus is green and torn. Most of the
Willow Creek population is made up of families that can afford to buy their
children a way to get to and from school so there's no need to spend tax
dollars on a new bus or to fix the seats of the old ones.
My father isn't one of those people.
Our farm sits on the outskirts of Willow Creek. We come from a long line
of farmers and ranchers who lived and died on our North Carolina land. Our farm
was once a thriving business with cattle, horses and sheep that, at one time,
roamed twelve hundred acres. My grandfather took over after his father died and
taught his children how to tend to the barn animals and mend broken fences; how
to use their hands to earn what they needed.
Granddaddy passed six years ago. He left the land to my Nana who then
left it to their children. My father, Caleb, took over after she died and all
that was left were about two hundred acres of unused land with one broken down
old horse, two cows and a handful of chickens.
We barely made ends meet.
The bus driver pulled to a stop at the Johnson farm. Nadine Johnson
boarded, looked around at all the empty seats. Her eyes meet mine for a moment
before she quickly looked away and took the very first seat in front.
I chuckled quietly to myself, shaking my head, and gazed out the small
square window. The crow was still there, watching, flying along the tree line,
keeping pace with the bus. I smiled wanly, frustrated. Nadine Johnson wasn't
the only one who avoided eye contact. And she was one of the many that used to
sing that wretched nursery rhyme when we were children.
The song goes like this:
Sally
Sue Judas prances around town/
Up
the street and down the street in her ugly nightgown/
She
wraps upon the table and stares up at the clock/
And
deals the devil a dollar to rest her head upon.
Everyone knew the rhyme and every day of elementary school was torture.
The indecency of the other children came from their parents. Hate breeds hate, simple
as that.
The entire town of Willow Creek thinks there is something different
about me. They don't know how right they are.
Begrudgingly, I turned to the crow again, my eyes narrowed into slits.
It is his fault I'm a freak and an outcast and that my life isn’t blissfully
normal. I turned and frowned at the fading hunter green vinyl of the empty seat
ahead.
The black-winged aviator wasn't the entire reason people avoided me. He
wasn't the only reason people tried not to bump me in the halls or why some were
brave enough to taunt me with that despicable rhyme or appalling names. But, if
I allowed myself to accept the true reason behind it all, I'd have to accept
that in the eyes of many the town’s folk, my grandmother was a witch.
Of course nothing is ever really that simple.
During World War II and before heading off to Germany, my grandfather
was stationed in Pierre, South Dakota. There, he befriended a man by the name
of Jesse Running Bull who came from the Lower Brulé Sioux Reservation. Jesse and
my grandfather considered each other brothers and on their first leave he
invited him to the reservation to meet his family. That is where he met a
beautiful young girl with bronze skin and raven hair named Wakanda Black Elk.
He used to say that he took one look at her and he was done. They spent the
entire week together. He promised he'd come back from the war and marry her.
He did.
What Nana brought to the farm was her pension for healing. Wakanda
wasn't a name given to her by accident. On the day she was born, the skies
opened up and let down the rain after a long and difficult drought. The moniker
means 'one who possesses magic'. And she did.
But, no matter what she did for the people of Willow Creek, nothing
protected her from malicious gossip and ridiculous rumors—the worst being that
she used sacrificial animals in her healing rituals.
Though I hated to admit it, her legend earned me a place on the unwanted
list. And though I wanted to blame the whole of their hate on the crow, I
couldn't. He was something they knew nothing about.
The doors squeaked open when the bus came to a stop. I waited for the
other three students that boarded after Nadine to get off before I made my
exit.
Just like every other day, I waited at the mouth of the entrance to the
school for Shanda.
My friend is this:
Once upon a time, there was a family from Georgia who moved into our
divided little town. They bore children and raised them to be good people. They
had a son, John and a daughter, Shanda. Their son grew up and headed off to the
West Coast to attend college.
Their daughter was some years younger than the boy. She was the girl
with golden hair and eyes as deep blue as sapphires. She loved riding horses
and hiking the mountains. She was raised a Christian and had no reason at all
to hate her life.
This girl wasn't like the others. She was kind and gentle and couldn’t
see behind the veil of goodness her parents used to shroud her eyes.
Her naiveté only made her all the more special to me. Shanda Malaise
didn't start life in this town so she knew nothing about my family. If she had
heard rumors, she never mentioned them. That's what made what made me want to
get up in the mornings and run out the door to be on time for school.
My backpack is heavy. I repeatedly swung it from one arm to the other
when the weight of it started to kink my shoulder. A car rolled into the
parking lot. I couldn't see the make from where I stood until it made a right
into one of the small rows and found an empty space to park. It wasn't Shanda.
I sighed heavily, checking the old watch Nana gave me just before she
passed. We had five minutes until the bell rang. I filled my cheeks with air,
blew it out noisily and tried to ignore the omnipresent sensation of
foreboding. Instead, I turned to the skies, which were dull gray and still. The
stratus clouds hung low; promised rain.
A caw ripped my eyes from the sky and onto an eave of the roof where I
locked eyes with the crow. A soft whisper began to take shape. It grew until it
was a loud ring in my ears. I wasn't positive it was meant for me, so I waited
until someone else walked by to be sure. Teddy Acker pulled into the parking
lot in his hand-me-down Ford pick-up and ran headlong up the pathway that led
to two glass entrance doors. The voice echoed so loud there was no way he
could've missed it. But, he simply passed right by me—nodding once in hello—and
came to a screeching halt just before he ran face first into the glass. Then,
he threw the door open and scurried inside.
My stomach twisted. The loud, obnoxious voice sang its warning over and
over.
Change is coming, little one.
I heard the words and didn't want to believe them. But, I could feel it
in my bones as surely as the blood that runs through my veins. It’s a chill,
like right before a cold comes on and you ache in places you didn’t know you
could ache.
I tried to tune out the noise, tried to focus on the road. But, a memory
began to flicker; a story Nana told me when I was a child. She used to say that
once the crow was all white and cousin to the buffalo that their tribe hunted.
The white crow warned the buffalo of hunters and their approach. Their cousins
were able to escape and for that, the tribe went hungry.
One day the old chief decided to capture the white crow. He used a
buffalo hide with head and horns, placing it onto the back of a young brave and
sent him into the pasture. When hunters approached, the white crow squawked and
called for their retreat. But one buffalo did not listen and when he came down
to warn him again, the young brave grabbed his feet and tied him to a rock with
string.
The council held a meeting and one—flushed with hunger and anger—threw
the bird into the council fire, singeing the rope and allowing the crow to go
free…but not before charring its feathers black. It swore that it—and the rest
of the Crow Nation—would never interfere again.
But another legend surfaced from those blackened feathers. Nana used to
say, Sally Sue, when the black crow is near and it ought not to be, it is a
telling of death fast approaching.
My heart seized and my chest began to burn from the cold air that shot
in and out of my lungs with each agonizing pant.
No, I told myself. It can't be.
I gazed at his black plumes and small claws, terrified to meet his eyes.
I knew what would be there; the end of all things good.
My feet froze where I stood and my pulse raced beneath my skin. It was
fire and ice; the burn of denial and the frigid reality of truth.
Stubbornly, I stayed planted under the eave, expecting my suspicions to
be explained away with a simple answer. Shanda had not set her alarm, she was
running late, she had to finish up an assignment before school and lost track
of time. There were a hundred and one reasons why she hadn't driven into the
parking lot yet.
But, there was only one reason the crow was brave enough to show himself
in a school with more than three hundred registered students.
Tears smarted from my eyes. It took all the strength I had to keep my
knees from buckling. With determination, I walked across the street to
J&J's Mini Mart, yanked a couple of quarters from my backpack and dialed
her cell phone, keeping an eye on the road the entire time.
It went straight to voice mail.
I tried her house and then her cell again, losing a bit more faith with
every empty ring.
I jogged back to the school—missing my first class—and continued to
wait.
I waited in vain.
The little red car never came.
I waited a whole hour before I finally headed for the principal's office
and explained that something was amiss. Mr. Godfrey frowned, shook his head and
led me out of the office with a 'she's fine'. I wanted to scream at him to call
her parents; tell them she never arrived at school. But, there was no way he
was going to listen to me. Not Sally Sue Judas, the crazy girl.
My desperation led me to find Teddy Acker. Even though I hadn't spoken
to him since I was a girl, I knew he was friends with Shanda and I was certain
he'd want to know that she was okay. I found him in a huddle of jocks with a
grim smile on his face. Though I was sure the conversation was interesting to
the rest of the group, Teddy didn't look that satisfied. Maybe I was saving him
from having to endure another boring story.
His eyes widened with my approach. Three of the five stepped out of my
way when I made it to the circle; my dark hair covered most of my face.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Sure,” he said and excused himself.
I waited until we were out of earshot. My stomach twisted in odd ways.
“Do you think you could take me by Shanda's?”
He stood, dumbfounded, staring at me like I had just got off the short
bus. I was desperate to speed things along. That warning kept echoing,
reminding me that something was terribly wrong. Besides my father, Shanda was
the only person I cared about in the entire world. If something was going to
change, it was going to involve her, I was sure of it.
“What's wrong?” he asked when he found his voice.
“She didn't come to school.”
He frowned, just like Mr. Godfrey had. “I'm sure she's just sick,
Sally.”
I glared, my teeth sunk into my lower lip to keep from yelling. “Look,
she didn't call and tell me she wasn't coming in today. It’s not like her.
There's something wrong. Now, I'd appreciate a ride—mostly because I don't want
to hack the three miles it takes to get there. But, if you don't want to help
me, then fine. I'll go alone.”
I turned to walk away. It was the first time I'd ever spoken with that
kind of enthusiasm. It made me giddy.
“Wait!” he called out. I didn't turn around, choosing to head out the
doors instead.
Teddy followed me to the parking lot, grabbed me by the backpack and
yanked me to a stop when I continued to ignore him.
“I'll take you.”
“Thank you.” It was short and tight and the most I could manage.
We climbed into his truck and headed for the exit.
The streets were alive with people, most of them coming in and out of
restaurants. It was nearly lunch time and the flow of traffic began to slow.
“Come on!” Teddy hissed, trying to find another way around.
The crow was on the wire of the stop light. He peered down at me,
cocking his head to the side. I turned my head. I didn't want to look at him.
Teddy turned left down Washington Avenue and went another half mile
before making a right on Brewster Street. The normally cheerful soft white
house with light blue shutters sat eerily now on the small hill. Teddy spoke
the words before I could register them.
“Her car is gone.”
I flew from the truck and ran up the six steps and onto the wrap around
porch that ran the entire length of the house. He followed behind me. Suddenly,
I was nervous. What was I supposed to say? Besides, what if she was sick and
her mom was just using her car to take her to the doctor? I felt like such an
idiot. Still, I couldn't rid myself of the feeling something was awry.
Teddy stood next to me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“Are you going to knock?”
I shook my head and he sighed.
His knocks were forceful and nervous. I turned to stare at one of the
flower boxes Mrs. Malaise kept on the windowsills until I lost focus and the
white peonies were nothing but a blur.
After a second round of knocks the door finally swung open.
“Hello, Sally,” Mrs. Malaise said, drying her hands on a kitchen towel.
“What brings you here on a school day?”
“Sorry to bother you, ma'am,” Teddy started when I didn't speak. “We
just came by to check on Shanda, since she didn't come to school today.”
“What?” she asked and my heart sank.
“Well, we were just wondering if she was alright. We didn't mean to
cause her any trouble.”
Teddy thought she was skipping class. Though he was her friend, he
apparently knew nothing about her.
“We just came home about an hour ago. We were in Raleigh, picking up
some new equipment for Henry. Shanda spent last night alone. When we didn't see
her car, we figured that's where she was.”
Small circles of panic flushed her face. It was the look I was dreading.
“Come in, you two,” she said and opened the door wide enough to let us
through. “Let me check her room.”
We waited in silence, both of us standing in the kitchen, still as
statues. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The house, normally bright
and colorful, seemed dull and lackluster today. Everything felt wrong, like the
entire world had shifted off balance. We heard her footfalls on the stairs.
“I hadn't had a chance to get to her room yet,” she started, her eyes
wide. “Normally, I make her bed. She can be so forgetful,” she chuckled
nervously. “It hasn't been slept in.”
Teddy
stiffened. “When was the last time you spoke to her?” he asked.
“Yesterday, before we left for Raleigh.” She turned to me. “Did you see
her yesterday?”
“Yes, ma'am. I saw her after school. She said 'I'll see you tomorrow'.”
The room fell silent and seemed to grow darker. “Henry!” she called out,
but didn't move.
“What is it Leila?” Mr. Malaise asked, coming into the kitchen. “Hey,
Sally. Theodore.” He turned to his wife whose face had paled. “What's wrong?”
“Shanda didn't sleep in her bed last night.” Her voice was small, her
eyes staring.
“Did she stay over at your house?” he asked me. I shook my head. He
looked at all of us, slowly establishing the crux of the situation without the
need for words. “Did she go to school today?”
“No, sir,” Teddy answered.
“Henry?” Mrs. Malaise turned to him, tears already collected on her
lashes.
“Call the police,” he said, before grabbing his keys and heading out the
door.
Two
Day 2
The day could be summed up in one word: chaos.
Shanda never came home last night. I waited for word that the police had
found her. When her mother didn't call, I reached for the phone and dialed,
desperate for some good news. But, she was still gone.
When the bus pulled to a stop in front of the school this morning, the
other four students and I pressed our faces against the windows. Police cars
surrounded the building. Students gathered in groups, each separated by class.
Principal Godfrey stood tall and lanky in a navy blue suit, speaking to the
sheriff.
My heart twisted. The crow sat on the eave where he had yesterday,
looking over the entire school with a wary eye. I was surprised that no one
noticed. He stood out like a sore thumb.
By the time I made it to first period, my hands were shaking. Morning
announcements consumed everyone's attention.
Principal Godfrey's voice echoed through the halls and inside the quiet
classroom.
“Good morning,” he started. “As you may have noticed, the Willow Creek
Police Department is at the school today conducting an investigation into the
disappearance of Shanda Malaise. Students will be called into the office one at
a time. Please answer their questions honestly. They are doing everything they
can to bring Shanda home safely.”
I couldn't swallow. Everyone's eyes were on the brown intercom box above
the blackboard. Susan Brink had tears in hers. The sight of them unnerved me. I
wanted to jump out of my chair and bring my hand down across her cheek. Susan
took pleasure in torturing people like me and constantly berated Shanda for
calling me her friend. Each tear she shed only added to my anger. She was
completely transparent; made from the same plastic mold used to craft her
mother.
Every one of these girls was made from plastic or rubber. They were
perfect reconstructions of the generation before them. They are the reason why
there was no room in this town for someone like me. Different isn't a
prepackaged product sold in mass markets.
I gripped the edges of the desk until my fingers were white and numb. I
didn't want to be here, but I didn't want to be home either. If I had stayed
home, I would only be driving myself insane with worry. At least here, if
anyone had word about Shanda, I'd know.
When the buzz of the intercom went silent, Ms. Rosas, the principal's
secretary, came through the door and up to Mr. Jefferies. They spoke in hushed
whispers and my stomach knotted when they both turned to me.
“Sally,” he said and nodded.
Slowly, I piled my books back into my backpack and followed the portly
woman out the door.
The hall was quiet and barren until we reached the end where we turned
left toward the office. We passed her locker. Police officers dressed in khaki,
starched uniforms were piling her belongings into a box they had set out on the
floor. I glared at them as we passed, feeling violated. Most lockers contained
pieces of someone's life. Every picture, every note or mirror stuck to their
metal doors proved that someone inhabited the small space and it made me angry
to see them rummaging through her things.
I recognized one of the cops. Timothy Jackson, a former 'client' of
Nana's. Tim was in his teens when he took to heroin. His parents were at their
wits end when they finally brought him to Judas Farm; strung out and thin as a
reed.
As I passed him, his entire story played out in the empty space between
us. Like a movie, small snippets of his memory flashed across my mind; as if
those painful reminders of a past he'd rather forget were mine as well.
Certain attributes make me different, like the fact that I can sometimes
hear thoughts or taste flavors of emotion. Only recently has it become more
refined. But now, with a pair of eyes gazing at me through a pudgy face, I
could see the agony he paid for the price of his freedom. I could see my
grandmother taking his arms into her hands and the thick, yellow liquid as it
oozed out of old puncture wounds as he screamed for her to stop. He screamed a
lot that night. He never touched the stuff again.
Tim's eyes told me he believed everything the town thought about Nana,
even after she saved his life.
I was the first to break eye contact.
The principal’s office reeked of coffee, printer ink and paper. The
smell twisted the knot in my gut. People were lined up against the walls,
sitting on desks with white cups in their hands. Every eye in the room turned
to look at me.
“In here,” Ms. Rosas said and led me into a room made of cinder blocks,
covered in beige paint.
Mr. Godfrey and Sheriff Holcomb both turned to the door as it opened.
The sheriff eyed me pensively. The sickly sweet flavor of suspicion filled my
mouth. It was thick, almost tangible and turned my stomach.
“I'll be outside,” Mr. Godfrey said and walked out without a backward
glance.
“Have a seat.”
The old, blue plastic chair squeaked under my weight. The sheriff walked
around the long conference table with a contemptible smirk.
“Sally Sue Judas,” he said in his thick, North Carolinian accent. “I
hear you is friends with Shanda Malaise.” Slowly, he moved closer until he
pressed his meaty hands on the table—fingers splayed—and leaned toward me.
“That true?”
I nodded, still trying to dispel the horrid flavor that seemed to get
stronger with every passing second.
“When was the last time ya seen her?” He pulled a chair from under the
table. It screeched across the plastic linoleum like fingernails against a
chalkboard.
When he sat, he pressed his ashy elbows into his knees; his black pants
so tight they cut the circulation to his thighs.
I gazed at the floor, focused on a scuff mark to find my courage. The
sheriff frightened me more than most. Not because of the badge he wore or the
false authority in his voice, but because of what he was capable of. What
terrified me most was the man behind the tightly creased beige cotton
shirt; the man that lay beneath the polished exterior. He screamed at me
through icy blue eyes, gray hair and chubby, pockmarked cheeks.
“Day before yesterday,” I whispered.
“What was she doin'?”
“Going home.” My muscles were as tight as piano wire. I worried he'd
read the fear in my posture and misconstrue it for something it wasn't.
“That what she said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No stops along the way that ya know of?”
“No, sir.” I turned to him with sincerity. “Shanda is a good girl. She
would never get herself into any kind of trouble. It’s not like her to do
anything foolish.”
He nodded and another burst of flavor slathered my tongue.
My family was no stranger to the law. My cousins, Billy Joe and Mack, have
had their run-ins with the sheriff. So has my father when he takes to the
bottle too much in one sitting. But I avoided these suits like the plague.
Unfortunately, I was cursed by name and by relation.
The good sheriff's thinking is this: the apple doesn't fall far from the
tree.
But, your tree isn't full of apples...it's full of maple syrup,
Shanda once told me after I explained my aversion for all things law
enforcement.
Though I couldn't know for certain, I had a feeling most people were
frightened of my family. When Nana was alive, she used to hold her healing
ceremonies on our land. She'd speak in languages most had never heard before.
Sometimes, when the moon was full, her fires would glow blue with magic. And
though they wrote her healing powers off as witchcraft, many still ended up at
our farm at one time or another. My grandmother used the fruit of the Hawthorn
tree to alleviate female troubles and stomach aches. She was known to cure
things from addiction to the flu; once, even cancer.
Sheriff Holcomb knows this. The story goes that his momma used to take
him down to the farm when he was a boy. Back when his legs were in braces and
Nana helped him walk without them.
But, afterwards he tried very hard to fit in with the rest of the town
and forgot about the good that was done for him.
Like most of them did.
The room was cold. Goosebumps broke over my arms. There was nothing to
do to alleviate the terrible chill.
A can of pop sat on the table, along with a half-eaten doughnut. My
stomach growled. Suddenly, I realized I hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast
yesterday. The day my friend didn't show up for school.
“Alright, Sally Sue,” he said with a creepy, crooked smile. “That'll be
all. But, keep yerself handy, ya hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
He hefted himself out of the chair, breathing heavily as he did. I rose,
wrapped my arms around my chest to keep myself together.
I walked out of the room with my head down. For the first time, I hoped
that everyone kept to their ritual and avoided looking at me.
The bell rang and a hundred of my peers filed into the hallways. No one
said a word, only stared.
So much for hoping.
I walked quickly to my locker, tasting the different emotions that
filtered through walls it took years to build; walls that kept every emotion at
bay. The walk was long and the flavors continued to burst over my tongue until
finally, I headed into the restrooms to rid my mouth of the horrid mixture.
The small, confining space was full of girls, all checking their
make-up; some with streaks of black that ran down their cheeks. I ran into the
first empty stall I found and spit into the toilet. I was desperate to rinse my
mouth, but I couldn't bring myself to face anyone. Quietly, I peeked through
the small opening between my stall door and dividing wall. Girls were
reexamining their touch-ups and quickly left the restroom until it was
completely empty.
I opened the door, turned the faucet on and bent my head to take some of
the running water, sloshing it around my mouth and spitting it into the sink. I
splashed some on my face; the cold of it helped a little. When I looked in the
mirror, I started. The circles under my eyes ran deep and my skin had a sallow
look to it. It explained why the sheriff was so suspicious. But, what he didn't
understand was the bonds of our friendship. Every minute Shanda is gone is like
a lifetime to me. Many don't understand it, not that they have to. Shanda and I
are opposites in every way. Still, it doesn't change the fact that we are
kindred. Nothing can.
The sound of voices forced me back into the stall. I closed the door
quietly, turning the lock to keep the world out.
“Do you think she knows?” a familiar voice said. Brynn Thompson, another
one of the Willow Creek plastics, molded the same as the rest.
“I don't know.” Olivia Spencer, Brynn's best friend.
I sat on the toilet seat, lifting my feet so they wouldn't see them.
“Well, if you ask me, she had something to do with it.”
“How can you say that, Brynn? I mean, granted the girl is weird, but
Shanda's her best friend.”
“Come on! Obviously, the girl has serious issues. Why do you think
Sheriff Holcomb asked her to the office?”
“Well, she is her friend. He would've called us in, too, if we
were close to her.”
Through the opening, I could see Brynn applying another layer of lip
gloss on her already shiny lips. My fingers curled into fists. Of course, she
was talking about me.
“Anyway, she's probably dead.”
“Brynn!”
My heart stopped, just for a moment, before kick-starting at full
throttle. My nails dug into the red paint until there were long, rust-colored
scratches running down the length of both walls.
I wanted to put my fist through her face, tear her throat out so she
couldn't make another sound. But, instead I took a deep, angry breath. Water
dripped down my cheeks. I hadn't had a chance to dry my face and the excess
stung my eyes. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and realized it wasn't
water, but tears.
“It's true,” Brynn whispered. “I hate to say it, but it's the truth.
That's how these things work. They just never end happily.” She sounded sad
now...I hated her for it.
“We'd better go,” Olivia said, her voice tight.
“Yeah.” They walked out together and I was alone again.
My anger drained me, left me lethargic. My limbs felt heavy, like they'd
filled with lead instead of porous bone and muscle.
They all think I'm involved. Brynn actually believes that I had it in me
to hurt my best friend. The room began to spin. No matter how much they hated
me, I didn't deserve that kind of judgment or those kinds of implications. I
wanted to scream my innocence, but what good would it do? I simply held on to what little dignity I had
left and walked out of the Girl's room.
Another period had passed while I sat in that stall, trying to find the
courage to face people like Brynn. The halls were full of students talking in
hushed voices. Some clung onto each other for support.
I turned my eyes away from the hypocrisy. The bond Shanda and I shared didn't
require public displays of emotion. For them, her absence meant a reason to
leave school; a reason to hang out at the local diner and talk about how awful
they felt over a basket full of fries.
For me, her disappearance meant loneliness, bitterness and the feeling
of no direction. Worse, was being in this place that reminded me of her. The
walls, the floors, the ceilings all held secrets, all held moments when she'd
walked through them with her infectious laughter and brilliant smile. Her
hellos clung to the paint and her goodbyes to the floors as she strode out of
the building.
It hurt to be here.
I pushed through the glass double doors and headed out into the cold,
March day. The wind bit at my cheeks and my eyes until they watered. I looked
up at the sky, still gray and motionless and one thought filtered through all
the rest.
The sun is gone and wouldn't return until Shanda does.
